CIHM 
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Canadian  InatituM  fof  Hiatorieal  Mkroraproductlana  /  InatHut  Canadian  da  microraproduetiona  hiatoriquaa 


1995 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  technique  et  bibliographlques 


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checked  below. 


n 
n 

D 

D 
D 
D 

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Coloured  covers  / 
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This  iuin  it  filmad  at  tlw  rtduction  ralio  checked  btlow/ 

C«  documant  est  film*  au  taux  da  riduction  indiqiiA  ci-dassous. 

1DX  14X  18X 


LE 


20X 


Z2X 


Th*  copy  filmad  har*  hu  baan  raproduead  thank* 
to  tha  ganarsaity  of: 

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Tha  imagai  appaaring  hara  ara  tha  baat  quality 
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aion,  or  tha  back  covar  whan  approprlata.  All 
othar  original  eopiaa  ara  fllmad  baginning  on  tha 
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aion,  and  anding  on  tha  last  paga  with  a  printad 
or  illuatratad  impraaaion. 


Tha  last  racordad  frama  on  aach  microf icha 
shall  contain  tha  symbol  ^^  Imaaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  tha  symbol  ▼  Imaaning  "END"), 
whichavar  applias. 

Maps,  platas.  charts,  ate.  may  ba  fllmad  at 
diffarant  raduction  ratios.  Thosa  too  larga  to  ba 
antiraly  includad  in  ona  sxposura  ara  fllmad 
baginning  In  tha  uppar  laft  hand  cornar.  laft  to 
right  and  top  to  bonom,  as  many  frama*  as 
raquirad.  Tha  following  diagrams  illustrata  tha 
mathod: 


Las  imagas  suivantas  ont  M  raproduitas  avac  la 
plus  grand  soin,  compta  tanu  da  la  condition  at 
da  la  nattat*  da  l'axamplaira  film*,  at  an 
conf  ormM  avac  la*  condition*  du  eontrat  da 
filmaga. 

Laa  axamplairaa  origlnaux  dont  la  eouvartura  an 
papiar  aat  imprimia  *ont  fllma*  m  commancant 
par  la  pramiar  plat  at  an  tarminant  soit  par  la 
darniira  paga  qui  eomporta  una  amprainta 
d'Imprasslon  ou  d'lllustration.  soit  par  la  sacond 
plat,  aalon  la  eaa.  Tou*  laa  autra*  axamplairas 
origlnaux  sont  filmAs  an  commancant  par  la 
pramitra  paga  qui  eomporta  una  amprainta 
d'Imprassion  ou  d'lllustration  at  an  tarminant  par 
la  darnlAra  paga  qui  eomporta  una  taila 
amprainta. 

Un  das  symbolas  suivants  ipparaitrs  sur  la 
darnitra  imaga  da  chaqua  microfiche,  salon  la 
cas:  I*  lymbola  ^»  signifia  "A  SUIVRE".  la 
symbols  V  signifia  "FIN". 

Las  cartas,  planchas.  tableaux,  etc..  pauvant  itre 
filmte  i  des  taux  da  rtduction  differents. 
Lorsqus  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  itre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clicht.  il  est  film*  i  psrtir 
de  I'sngia  suptriaur  gauche,  de  gauche  i  droitc. 
et  de  haut  an  bas.  en  prenant  la  nombre 
d'imegaa  n^casssire.  Lee  diegremmes  suivents 
illustrent  la  mathode. 


1  2  3 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

MICROCOPY   >tS0lUTION  TiSI  CHART 

(ANSI  ond  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


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HARBOR  TALES 
DOWN  NORTH 


WOUKS  op  NORMAN  DUNCAN 


llwSouIaltlieStfwt 

The  Way  of  U»  Sea 

Doctor  Luke  of  the  Labrador 

The  Mother 

Doctor  Grenfell'i  Parish 

The  Adveotum  of  Billy  Topaail 

The  Cruiae  of  the  Shining  Light 

Every  Man  for  Buntelf 

Tie  Suitable  Child 

Going  Dowa  from  Jeruialeoi 

Higgina:  A  Man'a  Chriatian 

BiUy  Topsail  and  Company 

The  Measure  of  a  Man 

Hie  Best  of  a  Bad  Job 

Ibding  His  Sou] 

Hie  Bird  Store  Man 

Australian  By-Waya 

BiUy  Topniil,  M.  D. 

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Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


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0rt^ 


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HARBOR  TALES 
DOWN  NORTH 


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BV 

NORMAN  DUNCAN 

AVTKOI  or 

"Doctoi  Lnti  or  Tm  Lawudoi,"  etc. 

Vruk  m  AftTKlatim  ty 
WnJMD  T.  CRENFELL,  V  X 


ILLUSTRATED 


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250376 


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London:  31  Paternoster  Square 
Edinburgh:     75    Princes    Street 


CONTENTS 


CBAPTn 

Appreciatiation  by 
Wilfred  T.  Grenfell,  M.D. 

Madman's  Luck 

The  Siren  op  Scalawag  Run  . 
The  Art  op  Terry  Lute 
The  Doctor  op  Afternoon  Arm 
A  Croesus  op  Gingerbread  Cove  . 
VI.    A  Madonna  op  Tinkle  Tickle 
VII.    The  Little  Nipper  o'   Hide-an'- 

Seek  Harbor 

VIII.    Small  Sam  Small 

IX.    An  Idyl  of  Rickity  Tickle     . 


I. 

II. 
III. 
IV. 

V. 


S 

59 

91 

"S 

141 

16s 

189 
223 
ass 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

VAcmo 

Nonnan  Duncan t^ 

"Well,  I'm  off,  whatever  comes  of  it"  .       .        .    48 

"  'You're  a  coward,  God  help  you,'  SHpper  Tom 
groped" j^g 

"  If  he  comes  by  the  bight  he'll  never  get  here 

**«"" 1.6 

"  We  found  Skipper  Sammy  squatted  on  a  pan 

350 


NORMAN  DUNCAN 

An  Appreciation  by 
Wilfred  T.  Grenfell,  M.  D. 

AS  our  thoughts  fly  back  to  the  days  when 
^     the  writer  of  these  stories  was  a  guest 
aboard  our  little  hospital  vessel,  we  re- 
member realizing  how  vast  was  the  gulf  which 
seemed  to  lie  between  him  and  the  circumstances 
of  our  sea  life  in  th/-  Northland.    Nowhere  else  in 
the  world,  perhaps,  do  the  cold  facts  of  life  call 
for  a  more  unrelieved  material  response.    It  is  said 
of  our  people  that  they  are  bom  with  a  netting 
needle  in  their  hand  and  an  ax  by  the  side  of 
their  cradle.     Existence  is  a  daily  struggle  with 
adamantine  facts  and  conditions;  and  quick,  prac- 
tical response,  which  leaves  little  encouragement 
or  opportunity  for  dreamers,  is,  often  enough,  the 
only  dividing  line  between  life  and  death.     As  I 
write  these  lines  the  greatest  physical  battle  the 
worid  has  ever  seen  is  being  fought.    Yet  here,  as 
my  eyes  wander  over  the  great  ocean  around  me, 
nothing  but  absolute  peace  meets  my  view.    But  it 
too  has  its  stormy  times  and  its  days  when  its 
strength  and  its  mighty  depths  of  possibilities  are 
the  most  insistent  points  about  it.    And  this  spirit 


6 


Norman  Duncan 


of  the  deep  Norman  Duncan  seems  to  have  under- 
stood as  did  no  other  of  our  visitors. 

Our  experience  of  the  men  from  the  hubs  of 
existence  had  led  us  to  regard  them  all  as  hardened 
by  a  keener  struggle  than  outs,  and  critical,  if  not 
suspicious,  of  those  who  were  satisfied  to  endure 
greater  physical  toil  and  discomfort  than  they  for 
so  much  smaller  material  return.  In  the  Labrador 
even  a  dog  hates  to  be  laughed  at,  and  the  merest 
suspicion  of  the  supercilious  makes  a  gap  which 
it  is  almost  impossible  to  bridge.  But  Norman 
Duncan  created  no  such  gap.  He  was,  therefore, 
an  anomaly  to  us — ^he  was  away  below  the  surface 
— and  few  of  us,  during  the  few  weeks  he  stayed, 
got  to  know  him  well  enough  to  appreciate  his  real 
worth.  Yet  men  who  "go  down  to  the  sea  in 
ships"  have  before  now  been  known  to  sleep 
through  a  Grand  Opera,  or  to  see  little  to  attract 
in  the  works  of  the  Old  Masters.  And  so  we 
gather  comfort  for  our  inability  to  measure  this 
man  at  his  full  stature. 

All  who  love  men  of  tender,  responsive  imagina- 
tion loved  Duncan.  It  was  quite  characteristic  of 
the  man  that  though  he  earned  large  sums  of  money 
by  his  pen,  he  was  always  so  generous  in  helping 
those  in  need — ^more  especially  those  who  showed 
talents  to  which  they  were  unable,  through  stress  of 
circumstances,  to  give  expression — that  he  died 
practically  a  poor  man.  He  was  a  high-souled, 
generous  idealist.    All  his  work  is  purposeful,  con- 


An  Appreciation  7 

veying  to  his  readers  a  moral  lessoa  He  had  the 
keenest  appreciation  of  the  feelings  of  others  and 
understood  the  immense  significance  of  the  little 
things  of  life — a  fact  evidenced  by  his  vivid  de- 
scriptions of  the  beauties  of  Nature,  which  he  first 
appreciated  and  then,  with  his  mastery  of  English, 
so  ably  described.  His  own  experience  of  poverty 
and  struggle  after  leaving  the  university  opened  to 
him  channels  for  his  sympathetic  portrayal  of 
humble  life.  Physicall'-  he  was  never  a  fighter  or 
an  athlete;  but  he  provea  himself  possessed  of  sin- 
gular personal  courage.  He  fought  his  best  fights, 
however,  on  fields  to  which  gladiators  have  no  entry 
and  in  battles  which,  unlike  our  physical  contests, 
are  not  spasmodic,  but  increasing  and  eternal. 
Norman  Duncan's  love  and  affection  for  the  people 
whom  we  also  found  joy  in  serving  naturally  en- 
deared him  to  us.  He  was  ever  a  true  knight, 
entering  the  lists  in  behalf  of  those  principles  which 
make  up  man's  real  inner  life;  and  we  realize  that 
his  love  for  men  who  embody  characteristics  de- 
veloped by  constant  contact  with  the  sea — fortitude, 
simplicity,  hardiness — died  only  with  his  own 
passing. 

The  stories  here  brought  together  are  woven  out 
of  experiences  gathered  during  his  brief  periods  of 
contact  with  our  life.  But  how  real  are  his  char- 
acters! Like  other  famous  personalities  in  fiction 
—Mr.  Pickwick,  Ebenezer  Scrooge,  Colonel  New- 
come,  Tom  Jones,  and  a  thousand  others — who 


8 


Norman  Duncan 


people  a  world  we  love,  they  teach  us,  possibly, 
more  of  high  ideals,  and  of  our  capacities  for  serv- 
ice tiian  do  the  actual  lives  of  some  saints,  or  the 
biographies  of  philosophers.  And  how  vivid  the 
action  in  which  his  characters  take  part!  In  the 
external  circumstances  of  his  life  and  in  his  literary 
art  and  preferences  he  was  singularly  like  his  elder 
brother  in  romance,  Robert  Louis  Stevenson.  Both 
were  slight  in  physique  but  manly  and  vigorous  in 
character  and  mission  in  life.  Both  were  wander- 
ers over  the  face  of  the  globe.  Both  loved  the  sea 
passionately,  and  were  at  their  best  in  telling  of 
the  adventures  of  those  who  spend  their  lives  on 
the  great  waters.  Both,  finally,  died  at  the  height 
of  power,  literally  with  pen  in  hand,  for  both  left 
recent  and  unfinished  work.  And  the  epitaph  of 
either  might  v/ell  be  the  noble  words  of  Stevenson 
from  his  brave  essay  on  the  greatness  of  the  stout 
heart  bound  with  triple  brass: 

"Death  has  not  been  suffered  to  take  so  much 
as  an  illusion  from  his  heart.  In  the  hot-fit  of 
life,  a-tiptoe  on  the  highest  point  of  being,  he  passes 
at  a  bound  on  the  other  side.  The  noise  of  the 
mallet  and  chisel  is  scarcely  quenched,  the  trumpets 
are  hardly  done  blowing,  when,  trailing  clouds  of 
glory,  this  happy-starred,  full-blooded  spirit  shoots 
into  the  spiritual  land." 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE 

IN  the  blood  of  Nonnan  Duncan  lived  a  spirit 
of  romance  and  a  love  of  adventure  which 
make  the  chronicle  of  his  short  life  a  record 
of  change  and  movement.  He  was  bom  in  Brant- 
ford,  on  the  Grand  River,  in  Western  Ontario, 
July  2,  1871,  and  though  he  passed  most  of  the 
years  of  his  manhood  :i  the  United  States,  he 
never  took  out  citizenship  papers  in  the  Republic. 
After  a  boyhood  spent  in  various  towns  in  Canada, 
he  entered  Toronto  University,  where  in  his  four 
years  of  undergraduate  life  he  participated  eagerly 
in  all  forms  of  social  and  literary  activity. 

In  1895  he  joined  the  reportorial  staff  of  the 
Auburn  (N.  Y.)  Bulletin,  which  position  he  held 
for  two  years.  Then  followed  four  years  of  con- 
genial work  on  the  staff  of  the  New  York  Even- 
ing Post,  where  he  served  successively  as  reporter, 
copy  editor  on  city  desk,  special  writer  for  the 
city,  and,  finally,  editor  of  the  Saturday  supple- 
ment. The  editors  of  the  Post  were  quick  to  recog- 
nize Duncan's  ability  in  descriptive  writing  and 
character  delineation,  and  under  the  spur  of  their 
encouragement  he  did  his  first  important  literary 
work,  a  series  of  short-stories  of  life  in  the 
Syrian  quarter  of  New  York  City,  published  first 
g 


10 


Norman  Duncan 


in  Th*  Atlantic  Monthly  and  McClur^s  Maga- 
tine  and  gathered  subsequently  into  a  book 
entitled  The  Soul  of  the  Street.  About  the  time 
of  the  appearance  of  this  book  the  author's  tem- 
perament reacted  against  the  atmosphere  which 
it  embodied,  and  in  the  summer  of  1900  by  an 
arrangement  with  McClure's  Magasine  he  went  tv. 
Newfoundland  to  gather  impressions  and  material 
for  a  series  of  sea-tales.  Up  to  this  time  he  had 
never  spent  a  night  on  the  ocean  nor  been  at  sea 
on  a  sailing  vessel;  in  his  boyhood  he  had  rather 
feared  the  great  gray  ocean,  and  only  later  in  life 
did  he  become  so  strongly  attracted  by  its  power 
and  mystery  and  by  the  impression  of  its  eternal 
struggle  against  those  who  must  wrest  a  precarious 
living  from  its  depths  that  it  provided  the  back- 
ground for  his  most  striking  and  characteristic 
stories.  Three  summers  in  Newfoundland  and  one 
on  the  Labrador  Coast  resulted  in  The  Way  of  the 
Sea,  Doctor  Luke  of  the  Labrador,  and  other  books 
and  short-stories,  including  those  of  the  present 
collection. 

In  1901  Duncan  was  appointed  assistant  to  the 
professor  of  English  at  Washington  and  Jefferson 
College,  and  one  year  later  he  was  elected  Wallace 
Professor  of  Rhetoric  at  the  same  institution,  a 
post  which  he  held  until  1906.  His  duties  were 
comparatively  light  so  that  he  was  able  to  devote 
much  of  his  time  to  literary  work.  While  occupy- 
ing this  position  he  enjoyed  the  companionship  of 


Biographical  Note 


II 

hi.  brother.  Robert  Kennedy  Duncan.  Profewor  of 
Oietnistry  at  the  college  and  later  President  of  the 
Mellon  Institute  of  the  University  of  Pittsburgh, 

^.  ^'kLT'"*"'  """^"^  *'^  "^  well-known  series 
of  text  books  in  chemistry,  who  died  in  1014 

In  1907  and  1908  Norman  Duncar  was  special 
correspondent  for  Harper's  Magazine  in  Pale2,e, 
Arabia,  and  Egypt,  and  in  1912  and  1913  he  was 
sent  by  the  same  magazine  to  Australia,   New 
Guinea,  the  Dutch  East  Indies,  and  the  Malay 
States.    Between  these  travel  periods  he  acted  for 
wo  years  as  adjunct  professor  of  English  at  the 
University  of  Kansas.    Not  any  of  Duncan's  for- 
eign  travel  seems  to  have  impressed  him  as  did  his 
visits  to  Newfoundland  and  the  Ubrador  coast, 
and  some  of  his  best  tales  are  those  of  the  North- 
land-powerful stories  01  life  reduced  to  its  ele- 
ments.   Of  these  tales  those  of  the  present  coUection 
are  a  good  representation. 

♦(,  '^J'^Tf  .?^  *"'*  ^"'  "t""**  *"  cut  off  at 
the  height  of  his  power;  he  died  verj  suddenly  of 
heart-disease  while  playing  a  golf-match  in  Fre- 
don^  New  York,  on  October  18,  1916.    He  lies 
buried  m  Brantford,  Ontario,  the  town  of  his  birth. 
Few  modern  writers  of  tales  and  short-stories 
have  drawTi  their  materials  from  sources  as  scat- 
tered as  those  which  attracted  Norman  Duncan 
Among  the  immigrants  of  the  East  Side  of  New 
rA        '°"^''  lumber-Jacks  of  the  Northwest, 
and  the  trappers  and  deep-sea  fishermen  of  New- 


It 


Norman  Duncan 


foundland  and  The  Labrador  he  gathered  hit  ideas 
and  impressions.  But  though  his  characters  and 
incidents  are  chosen  from  such  diverse  sources,  the 
characteristics  of  bis  literary  art  remain  constant 
in  all  his  books,  for  the  personality  of  the  author 
did  not  change. 

Norman  Duncan  was  a  realist  in  that  he  copied 
life.  But  his  realism  is  that  of  Dickens  and  Bret 
Harte  and  Kipling  rather  than  that  of  Mrs.  Freeman 
and  Arthur  Morrison  and  the  Russian  story-tellers. 
He  cared  less  for  the  accuracy  of  details  than  for 
the  vividness  of  his  general  impressions  and  the 
force  of  his  moral  lessons.  Like  Bret  Harte  he 
idealized  life.  Like  Harte,  too,  he  was  fond  of 
dramatic  situations  and  striking  contrasts,  of  mix- 
ing the  bitter  and  the  sweet  and  the  rough  and  the 
smooth  of  life;  his  introduction  of  the  innocent 
baby  into  the  drunkard-filled  bar-room  in  The 
Measure  of  a  Man  is  strikingly  like  Bret  Harte's 
similar  employment  of  this  sentimental  device  in 
The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,  and  the  presence  of 
Patty  Batch  among  the  soiled  women  of  Swamp's 
End  in  the  same  tale  and  of  the  tawdry  Millie  Slade 
face  to  face  with  the  curate  in  The  Mother  is  again 
reminiscent  of  Harte's  technique.  Like  Dickens 
and  like  Bret  Harte,  Duncan  was  a  frank  moralist 
His  chief  concern  was  in  winnowing  the  souls  of 
men  and  women  bare  of  the  chaf.'  of  petty  cir- 
cumstances which  covered  them.  His  stories  all 
contain  at  least  a  minor  chord  of  sentiment,  but 


Biographical  Note  is 

are  ustiaUy  free  from  the  sentimentality  which  mars 
•ome  of  Harte's  sketches.    He  is  not  ashamed  to 
employ  pathos,  but  his  tragic  situations  are  rarely 
overstrained  and  maudlin.    He  has  aU  the  tender- 
ness  of  Dickens;  his  Christmas  Eve  at  Topmast 
Tickle  may  well  be  compared  with  A  Christnuu 
Carol.     Norman  Duncan  never  married,  but  few 
Canadian  or  American  authors  have  understood 
women  as  did  the  creator  of  high-spirited  Bessie 
Roth  and  her  noble  mother  in  Doctor  Luke  of  the 
Labrador,  of  naive  little  Patt>-  Batch,  and  of  Millie 
Siade,  glorified  by  her  love  for  her  son.    In  the 
delicacy  and  sensibility  of  his  delineation  of  women 
he  undoubtedly  surpasses  Brei  Harte,  most  of  whose 
women  are  either  exaggerated  or  colorless.    More- 
over, Norman  Duncan  possessed  a  very  genuine 
understanding  of  children,  particularly  of  young 
boys,  of  whom  he  was  exceedingly  fond.    There  arc 
few  more  sympathetic  pictures  of  children  in  Amer- 
ican literature  than  those  of  David  Roth  and  the 
Lovejoy  twins  in  Doctor  Luke  of  the  Labrador, 
and  of  Donald,  Pale  Peter's  lad,  in  The  Measure  of 
a  Man;  and  in  Billy  Topsail  Duncan  has  created 
a  real  boy,  a  youngster  as  red-blooded  and  manly 
and  keen  for  excitement  in  his  numerous  thrilling 
adventures   in  the   frozen  North   as  are  any  of 
Stevenson's  boy  heroes. 

_  Variety  and  color  in  characters  and  situations, 
vividness  of  descriptions— especially  in  those  of  the 
stormy  sea— rapidity  of  movement  and  dramatic 


14 


Norman  Duncan 


intensity  in  narratives,  genuine  sentiment  and  real 
tenderness,  humor,  and  pathos,  and,  above  all,  a 
healthy,  vigorous,  Anglo-Saxon  morality — all  of 
these  qualities  make  of  Norman  Duncan's  books  and 
short-stories  literature  that  is  distinctly  worthy  and 
nermanent  in  character. 


I 


MADMAN'S  LUCK 


MADMAN'S  LUCK 

IT  was  one  thing  or  the  other.    Yet  it  might 
be  neither.    There  was  a  disquieting  altema- 
t've.    No  doubt  the  message  disposeu  of  the 
dehcate  L^fair  for  good  and  aU  in  ten  terse  words. 
The  maid  had  made  up  her  mind;  she  had  dis- 
closed It  ,n  haste:  that  was  all.    It  might  be.  how- 
ever,  that  the  dispatch  conveyed  news  of  a  more 
urgent  content.    It  might  be  that  the  maid  lay  ill- 
that  she  called  for  help  and  comfort.    In  that  event 
nothing  could  excuse  the  reluctance  of  the  man 
who  should  decline  an  instant  passage  of  Scalawag 
Run  with  the  pitiful  appeal.    True,  it  was  not  in- 
vitmg-a  passage  of  Scalawag  Run  in  the  we' 
gray  wind,  with  night  flowing  in  from  the  sea      " 
No  matter  about  that.     Elizabeti,   Luke  had 
departed  from  Scalawag  Harbor  in  confusion,  leav- 
ing no  definite  answer  to  the  two  grave  suggestions, 
but  only  a  melting  appeal  for  delay,  as  maids  wiU 
—tor  a  space  of  absence,  an  interval  for  reflection 
an  opportunity  to  search  her  heart  and  be  sure  of 
Its  decision.    If.  Uien,  she  had  communicated  that 
decision  to  her  mother,  according  to  her  promise 
to  commumcate  it  to  somebody,  and  if  the  telegram 

17 


13 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


contained  news  of  no  more  consequence,  a  good 
man  might  command  his  patience,  might  indulge  in 
a  reasonable  caution,  might  hesitate  on  the  brink  of 
Black  Cliff  with  the  sanction  of  his  self-respect. 
But  if  Elizabeth  Luke  lay  ill  and  in  need,  a  pas- 
sage of  Scalawag  Run  might  be  challenged,  what- 
ever came  of  it.  And  both  Tommy  Lark  and  Sandy 
Rowl  knew  it  well  enough. 

Tommy  Lark  and  Sandy  Rowl,  on  the  return 
from  Bottom  Harbor  to  Scalawag  Run,  had  come 
to  Point-o'-Bay  Cove,  where  they  were  to  lie  the 
night.  They  were  accosted  in  haste  by  the  tele- 
graph operator. 

"Are  you  men  from  Scalawag?"  she  inquired. 

She  was  a  brisk,  trim  young  woman  from  St. 
John's,  new  to  the  occupation,  whose  administration 
of  the  telegraph  office  was  determined  and  exact. 

"We  is,  ma'am,"  Sandy  Rowl  replied. 

"It's  fortunate  I  caught  you,"  said  the  young 
woman,  glowing  with  satisfaction.  "Indeed  it  is ! 
Are  you  crossing  at  once?" 

Sandy  Rowl  smiled. 

"We  hadn't  thought  of  it,  ma'am,"  ssud  he.  "I 
'low  you  don't  know  much  about  Scalawag  Run," 
he  added. 

The  young  woman  tossed  her  red  head. 

"When  you  have  thought  of  it,  and  made  up 
both  your  minds,"  she  replied  tartly,  "you  might 
let  me  know.    It  is  a  matter  of  some  importance." 

"Ay,  ma'am." 


I 


Madman's  Luck 


19 


By  this  time  Tommy  Lark  had  connected  the 
telegraph  operator's  concern  with  the  rare  emer- 
gency  of  a  message. 
"What  you  so  eager  t'  know  for?"  he  inquired 
1  ve  a  dispatch  to  send  across." 
"Not  a  telegram  I" 
"It  is." 

"Somebody  in  trouble?" 
"As  to  that,"  the  young  woman  replied,  "I'm  not 
permitted  to  say.    It's  a  secret  of  the  office  " 
from?"''""  P''""'""'  *'  *'"  ^^°  *e  telegram  is 
The  young  woman  opened  her  eyes.    This  was 
astomshing  simplicity.     Permitted  to  tell  who  the 
telegram  was  from ! 
"I  should  think  not!"  she  declared. 
"Is  you  permitted  t'  tell  who  'tis  for?" 
The  young  woman  debated  the  propriety  of  dis- 
closing the  name.     Presentiy  she  decided  tiiat  no 
legulation  of  the  office  would  be  violated  by  a  frank 
answer.    Obviously  she  could  not  send  tiie  message 
without  announcing  its  destinatioi.. 

"Are  you  acquainted  witii  Mrs.  Jacob  Luke?" 
said  she. 

Tommy  Lark  turned  to  Sandy  Rowl.  Sandy 
Rowl  turned  to  Tommy  Lark  Their  eyes  met 
Both  were  concerned.  It  v.as  Tommy  Lark  tiiat 
replied. 

"We  is."  said  he.    "Is  the  telegram  for  she?" 
It  is." 


so 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


"From  Grace  Harbor?" 

"I'm  not  permitted  to  tell  you  that" 

"Well  then,  if  the  telegram  is  for  Mrs.  Jacob 
Luke,"  said  Tommy  Lark  gravely,  "Sandy  Rowl 
an'  me  will  take  a  look  at  the  ice  in  Scalawag 
Run  an'  see  what  we  makes  of  it.  I  'low  we'll 
jus'  have  to.    Eh,  Sandy?" 

Sandy  Rowl's  face  was  twisted  with  doubt.  For 
a  moment  he  deliberated.  In  the  end  he  spoke 
positively. 

"We'll  take  a  look  at  it,"  said  he. 

They  went  then  to  the  crest  of  Black  Oiff  to 
survey  the  ice  in  the  run.  Not  a  word  was  spoken 
on  the  way.  A  momentous  situation,  by  the  dra- 
matic quality  of  which  both  young  men  were 
moved,  had  been  precipitated  by  the  untimely  re- 
ceipt of  the  telegram  for  Elizabeth  Luke's  mother. 


Point-o'-Bay,  in  the  lee  of  which  the  cottages 
of  Point-o'-Bay  Cove  were  gathered,  as  in  the  crook 
of  a  finger,  thrust  itself  into  the  open  sea.  Scala- 
wag Island,  of  which  Scalawag  Harbor  was  a  shel- 
tered cove,  lay  against  the  open  sea.  Between 
Point-o'-Bay  and  Scalawag  Island  was  the  run 
called  Scalawag,  of  the  width  of  two  miles,  leading 
from  the  wide  open  into  Whale  Bay,  where  it  was 
broken  and  lost  in  the  mist  of  the  islands.  There 
had  been  wind  at  sea — a  far-off  gale,  perhaps,  *hen 
exhausted,  or  plunging  away  into  the  southern  seas, 
leavmg  a  turmoil  of  water  behind  it. 


Madman's  Luck 


SI 


DirecUy  into  the  run,  rolling  from  the  open,  the 
sea  was  swelling  in  gigantic  billows.  There  would 
have  been  no  crossing  at  all  had  there  not  been 
ice  in  the  run;  but  there  was  ice  in  the  run— plenty 
of  ice,  fragments  of  the  fields  in  the  Labrador  drift, 
blown  in  by  a  breeze  of  the  day  before,  and  wal- 
lowing there,  the  wind  having  f aUen  away  to  a  wet, 
gray  breeze  which  served  but  to  hold  the  ice  in  the 
bay. 

It  seemed,  from  the  crest  of  Black  Qif*,  where 
Tommy  Lark  and  Sandy  Rowl  stood  gazing,  each 
debating  with  his  own  courage,  that  the  ic^  was 
heavy  enough  for  the  passage— thick  ice,  of  vary- 
ing extent,  from  fragments,  like  cracked  ice,  to 
wide  pans;  and  the  whole,  it  seemed,  floated  in  con- 
tact, pan  touching  pan  all  the  way  across  from  the 
feet  of  Black  Cliff  to  the  first  rocks  of  Scalawag 
Harbor. 

VVhat  was  inimical  was  the  lift  and  fall  of  the 
ice  in  the  great  swells  running  in  from  the  open 
sea. 

"Well?"  said  Tommy  Urk. 

"I  don't  know.    What  do  you  think  ?" 

"It  might  be  done.    I  don't  know." 

"Ay;  it  might  be.  No  tellin'  for  sure,  though. 
The  ice  is  in  a  wonderful  tumble  out  there." 

"Seems  t'  be  heavy  ice  on  the  edge  o'  the  sea." 

"  'Tis  in  a  terrible  commotion.  I'd  not  chance 
it  out  there.  I've  never  seed  the  ice  so  tossed 
about  in  the  sea  afore." 


22 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


Tommy  Lark  reflected. 

"Ay,"  he  determined  at  last;  "the  best  course 
across  is  by  way  o'  the  heavy  ice  on  the  edge  o' 
the  sea.  There  mus'  be  a  wonderful  steep  slant 
t'  some  o'  them  pans  when  the  big  seas  slips  be- 
neath them.  Yet  a  man  could  go  warily  an'  maybe 
keep  from  slidin'  off.  If  the  worst  comes  t'  the 
worst,  he  could  dig  his  toes  an'  nails  in  an'  crawl. 
'Tis  not  olain  from  here  if  them  pans  is  touchin' 
each  other  all  the  way  across;  but  it  looks  that 
way — I  'low  they  w  touchin',  with  maybe  a  few 
small  gaps  tliat  a  man  could  get  round  somehow. 
Anyhow,  'tis  not  4uite  certain  that  a  man  would 
cast  hisself  away  t'  no  purpose  out  there;  an'  if 
there's  evil  news  in  that  telegram  I  'low  a  man 
could  find  excuse  enough  t'  try  his  luck." 

"There's  news  both  good  and  evil  in  it." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Tommy  Lark  uneasily. 
"Maybe  there  is.  'Tis  awful  t'  contemplate.  I'm 
wonderful  nervous,  Sandy.    Isn't  you?" 

"I  is." 

"Think  the  wind  will  rise?    It  threatens." 

"I  don't  know.  It  has  a  sort  of  a  switch  to  it 
that  bodes  a  night  c'  temper.  'Tis  veerin'  f  the 
east.  'Twill  be  a  gale  from  the  open  if  it  blows 
at  all." 

Tommy  Lark  turned  from  a  listless  contempla- 
tion of  the  gray  reaches  of  the  open  sea. 

"News  both  good  an'  evil  I"  he  mused. 


Madman's  Luck 


98 


"The  one  for  me  an'  the  other  for  you.  An'  God 
knows  the  issue!    I  can't  fathom  it." 

"I  wish  'twas  over  with." 

"Me  too.  I'm  eager  t'  make  an  end  o'  the  matter. 
'Twill  be  a  sad  conclusion  for  me." 

"I  can't  think  it,  Sandy.  I  thinks  the  sadness 
will  be  mine." 

"You  rouse  my  hope,  Tommy." 

"If  'tis  not  I,  'twiU  be  you." 

"'Twill  be  you." 

Tommy  Lark  shook  his  head  dolefully.  He 
sighed. 

"Ah,  no  I"  said  he.  "I'm  not  that  deservin'  an' 
fortunate." 

"Anyhow,  there's  good  news  in  that  telegram 
for  one  of  us,"  Sandy  declared,  "an'  bad  news  for 
the  other.  An'  whatever  the  news, — whether  good 
for  me  an'  bad  for  you,  or  good  for  you  an'  bad 
for  me, — 'tis  of  a  sort  that  should  keep  for  a 
safer  time  than  this.  If  'tis  good  news  for  you, 
you've  no  right  t'  risk  a  foot  on  the  floe  this  night; 
if  'tis  bad  news  for  you,  you  might  risk  what  you 
liked,  an'  no  matter  about  it.  'Tis  the  same  with 
me.  Until  we  knows  what's  in  that  telegram,  or 
until  the  fall  of  a  better  time  than  this  for  erossin' 
Scalawag  Run,  we've  neither  of  us  no  right  t' 
venture  a  yard  from  shore." 

"You've  he  right  of  it,  so  far  as  you  goes," 
Tommy  Lark  replied ;  "but  the  telegram  may  con- 
tain other  news  than  the  news  you  speaks  of." 


i 


24 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


"No.  Tommy." 

"She  said  nothin'  t'  me  about  a  telegram.  She 
said  she'd  send  a  letter." 

"She've  telegraphed  t'  ease  her  mind." 

"Why  to  her  mother?" 

"  'Tis  jus'  a  maid's  way,  t'  do  a  thing  like  that." 

"Think  so,  Sandy?  It  makes  me  wonderful 
nervous.    Isn't  you  wonderful  nervous,  Saady?" 

"I  am  that" 

"I'm  wonderful  curious,  too.    Isn't  you?" 

"I  is.    I'm  impatient  as  well.    Isn't  you?" 

"I'm  havin'  a  tough  struggle  t'  command  my 
patience.    What  you  think  she  telegraphed  for  ?" 

"Havin'  made  up  her  mind,  she  jus'  couldn't  wait 
t'  speak  it" 

"I  wonder  what " 

"Me  too,  Sandy.  God  knows  it!  Still  an'  all, 
impatient  as  I  is,  I  can  wait  for  the  answer. 
'Twould  be  sin  an'  folly  for  a  man  t'  take  his  life 
out  on  Scalawag  Run  this  night  for  no  better  rea- 
son than  t'  satisfy  his  curiosity.  I'm  in  favor  o' 
waitin'  with  patience  for  a  better  time  across." 

"The  maid  might  be  ill,"  Tommy  Lark  objected. 

"She's  not  ill.  She's  jus'  positive  an'  restless. 
I  knows  her  ways  well  enough  t'  know  that  much." 

"She  might  be  iU." 

"True,  she  might;  but  she " 

"An'  if " 

Sandy  Rowl,  who  had  been  staring  absently  up 
the  coast  toward  the  sea,  started  and  exclaimed. 


Madman's  Luck  tS 

"Ecod  t"  said  he.   "A  bank  o'  fog*!  comin'  round 
Point-o'-Bayl" 

"Man  I" 

"That  ends  it" 

"Tisapity!" 

"  'Twill  be  thick  as  mud  on  the  floe  in  half  an 
hour.    We  must  lie  the  night  here." 

"I  don't  know,  Sandy." 

Sandy  laughed. 

"Tommy,"  said  he,  "  'tis  a  wicked  folly  t'  cling 
t'  your  notion  any  longer." 

"I  wants  t'  know  what's  in  that  telegram." 

"So  does  I." 

"I'm  fair  shiverin'  with  eagerness  t*  know.    Isn't 
you?" 

"I'm  none  too  steady." 

"Sandy,  I  jus'  got  f  know!" 

"Well,  then,"  Sandy  Rowl  proposed,  "we'll  go  an' 
bait  the  telegraph  lady  mto  tellin*  us." 

It  was  an  empty  pursuit  The  young  woman 
from  St  John's  was  obdurate.  Not  a  hint  escaped 
her  in  response  to  the  baiting  and  awkward  inter- 
rogation of  Tommy  Lark  and  Sandy  Rowl;  and 
the  more  they  besought  her,  the  more  suspicious  she 
grew.  She  was  an  obstinate  young  person — she 
was  precise,  she  was  scrupulous,  she  was  of  a  se- 
cretive, untrustful  turn  of  mind;  and  as  she  was  am- 
bitious for  advancement  from  the  dreary  isolation 
of  Point-o'-Bay  Cove,  she  was  not  to  be  entrapped 


96 


Harbor  Talea  Down  North 


or  entreated  into  what  >he  had  determined  was  a 
breach  of  discipline.  Moreover,  it  appeared  to  her 
suspicious  intelligence  that  these  young  men  were 
too  eager  for  information  Who  were  they?  She 
had  not  been  long  in  charge  of  the  office  at  Point- 
o'-Bay  Cave.  She  did  not  know  them.  And  why 
should  they  demand  to  know  the  contents  of  the 
telegram  before  undertaking  the  responsibility  of 
its  delivery? 

As  for  the  degree  of  peril  in  a  crossing  of  Scala- 
wag  Run,  she  was  not  aware  of  it;  she  was  from 
St.  John's,  not  out-port  bom.  The  ice  in  the  swell 
of  the  sea,  with  fog  creeping  around  Point-o'-Bay 
in  a  rising  wind,  meant  nothing  to  her  experience. 
At  any  rate,  she  would  not  permit  herself  to  fall 
into  a  questionable  situation  in  which  she  might  be 
called  severely  to  account.  She  was  not  of  that 
sort.  She  had  her  own  interests  to  serve.  They 
would  be  best  served  by  an  exact  executiotr  of  her 
duty. 

"This  telegram,"  said  she,  "is  an  office  secret, 
as  I  have  told  you  already.  I  have  my  orders  not 
to  betray  office  secrets." 

Tommy  Lark  was  abashed. 

"Look  you,"  he  argued.  "If  the  message  is  of 
no  consequence  an'  could  be  delayed " 

"I  haven't  said  that  it  is  of  no  consequence." 

"Then  'tis  of  consequence!" 

"I  don't  say  that  it  is  of  consequence.    I  don't 


Msdnum's  Luck 


«7 


•ay  anything  either  way.    I  don'f  say  anything  at 
all."  * 

"Well,  now,"  Tommy  compUined,  "t'  carry  that 
message  across  Scalawag  Run  would  be  a  wonder- 
ful dangerous——" 
"You  don't  have  to  carry  it  across." 

"True.    Yet  'tis  a  man's  part  t'  serve " 

"My  instructions,"  the  young  woman  interrupted, 
"are  to  deliver  messages  as  promptly  as  possible. 
If  you  are  crossing  to  Scalawag  Harbor  to-night, 
I  should  be  glad  if  you  would  take  this  telegram 
with  you.  If  you  are  not— well,  that's  not  "my 
affair.  I  am  not  instructed  to  urge  anybody  to 
deliver  my  messages." 

"Is  the  message  from  the  maid?" 

"What  a  question!"  the  young  woman  exclaimed 
indignantly.    "I'll  not  tell  you!" 

"Is  there  anything  about  sickness  in  it?" 

"m  not  tell  you." 

"If  'tis  a  case  o'  sickness,"  Tommy  declared, 
"well  take  it  across,  an'  glad  t'  be  o'  service.  If 
'tis  the  other  matter " 

"What  other  matter?"  the  young  woman  flashed. 

"Well,"  Tommy  replied,  flushed  and  awkward, 
"there  was  another  little  matter  between  Elizabeth 
Luke  an' " 

The  young  woman  started. 

"Elizabeth  Luke!"  she  cried.  "Did  you  say 
Elizabeth  Luke?" 

"I  did,  ma'am." 


28 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


"I  said  nothing  about  Elizabeth  Luke." 

"We  knows  'tis  from  she." 

"Ah-ha!"  the  young  woman  exclaimed.  "You 
know  far  too  much.  I  think  you  have  more  inter- 
est in  this  telegram  than  you  ought  to  have." 

"I  confess  it." 

The  young  woman  surveyed  Tommy  Lark  with 
sparkling  curiosity.  Her  eyes  twinkled.  She 
pursed  her  lips. 

"What's  your  name?"  she  inquired. 

"Thomas  Lark." 

The  young  woman  turned  to  Sandy  Rowl. 

"What's  your  name?"  she  demanded. 

"Alexander  Rowl.  Is  there — is  there  anything 
in  the  telegram  about  me?    Aw,  come  now!" 

The  young  woman  laughed  pleasantly.  There 
was  a  romance  in  the  wind.    Her  interest  was  coy. 

"Would  you  like  to  know?"  she  teased,  her  face 
dimpling. 

Sandy  Rowl  responded  readily  to  this  dimpling, 
flashing  banter.  A  conclusion  suggested  itself  with 
thrilling  conviction. 

"I  would !"  he  declared. 

"And  to  think  that  I  could  tell  you!" 

"I'm  sure  you  could,  ma'am !" 

The  young  woman  turned  to  Tommy  Lark. 

"Your  name's  Lark?" 

"Yes,  ma'am.  There's  nothin' — there's  nothin' 
in  the  telegram  about  a  man  called  Thomas  Lark, 
is  there?" 


Madman's  Luck 


29 


"And  yours  is  Rowl?" 
"Yes,  ma'am." 

"  J  rmTrJ^  th«e  parts."  said  the  young  woman, 
and  Im  trymg  to  learr:  J,  the  «ames  I  can  mas- 
ter Now.  as  for  this  .elegram.  yo,.  maylke  t 
or  leave  ,t.  just  as  you  wiU.  What  are  you7o„g 
to  do?^  I  want  to  close  the  o.u.e  now  and  go  Lmf 

ToZyP"  '^''^    '*'"    ''''    ^^'y    Ro-'-      "Eh. 
"Ay." 
"An*  we'll  deliver  it  as  soon  as  we're  able     It 

"We'll  take  it  across." 

With  that  the  young  woman  handed  the  sealed 
e  jelope  to  Tommy  Uric  and  bade  them  S.  go^ 

Tommy  Lark  thrust  the  telegram  in  his  waist- 
tulrl'  ^''^''""'^-d  his  jacket.  Both  m«. 
turned  to  the  path  to  the  crest  of  Black  Giff,  whence 
a  lesser  foot-path  led  to  the  shore  of  the  sU. 

One  o  the  two  of  us."  said  Sandy  Rowl.  "is 
named  m  that  telegram.    I'm  sure  of  it " 

Tommy  Lark  nodded. 

"I  knows  it,"  Sandy  proceeded,  "because  I  seed 
a  flicker  m  the  woman's  eye  when  she  learned  the 
two^  names  of  us.     She's  a  sly  one.  that  youn^ 


} 


so 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


"Ay." 

"You  is  chosen,  Tommy." 

"No,  'tis  not  I.  'Tis  you.  You  is  selected, 
Sandy.  The  woman  twinkled  when  she  named  you. 
I  marked  it  t'  my  sorrow." 

"The  maid  would  not  choose  me.  Tommy," 
Sandy  replied,  his  face  awry  with  a  triumphant 
smile,  "when  she  might  have  you." 

"She've  done  it." 

In  advance,  on  the  path  to  the  crest  of  Black 
Cliff,  Tommy  Lark  was  downcast  and  grim.  Of 
a  faithful,  kindly  nature  in  respect  to  his  dealings 
with  others,  and  hopeful  for  them  all,  and  quick 
with  an  inspiring  praise  and  encouragement,  he 
could  discover  no  virtue  in  himself,  nor  had  he  any 
compassion  when  he  phrased  the  chapters  of  his  own 
future;  and  though  he  was  vigorous  and  decisive  in 
action,  not  deterred  by  the  gloom  of  any  prospect, 
he  was  of  a  gray,  hopeless  mind  in  a  crisis. 

Rowl,  however,  was  of  a  saucy,  sanguine  tem- 
perament ;  his  faith  in  his  own  deserving  was  never 
diminished  by  discouragement;  nor,  whatever  his 
lips  might  say,  was  he  inclined  to  foresee  in  his  fu- 
ture any  unhappy  turn  of  fortune.  The  telegraph 
operator,  he  was  persuaded,  had  disclosed  an  under- 
standing of  the  situation  in  a  twinkle  of  her  blue 
eyes  and  an  amused  twist  of  her  thin  lips ;  and  the 
twinkle  and  the  twist  had  indicated  the  presence 
of  his  name  in  Elizabeth  Luke's  telegram.  Rowl 
was  uplifted — ^triumphant. 


Madman's  Luck  si 

In  the  wake  of  Tommy  Lark  he  grinned,  his 
teeth  bare  with  delight  and  trimiiph.  And  as  for 
Tommy  Lark,  he  plodded  on,  striving  grimly  up 
the  hill,  his  mind  sure  of  its  gloomy  inference,  his 
heart  wrenched,  his  purpose  resolved  upon  a  worthy 
course  of  feeling  and  conduct.  Let  the  dear  maid 
have  her  way!  She  had  chosen  her  happiness. 
And  with  that  a  good  man  must  be  content. 

In  the  courtship  of  pretty  Elizabeth  Luke, 
Tommy  Lark  had  acted  directly,  bluntly,  impetu- 
ously, according  to  his  nature.  And  he  had  been 
forehanded  with  his  declaration.  It  was  known  to 
him  that  Sandy  Rowl  was  pressing  the  same  pur- 
suit to  a  swift  conclusion.  Tommy  Lark  loved  the 
maid.  He  had  told  her  so  with  indiscreet  precip- 
itation; and  into  her  confusion  he  had  flung  the 
momentous  question. 

"Maid,"  said  he,  "I  loves  you!  WiU  you  wed 
me?" 

Sandy  Rowl,  being  of  a  more  subtle  way  in  all 
things,  had  proceeded  to  the  issue  with  delicate 
caution,  creeping  toward  it  by  inches,  as  a  man 
stalks  a  caribou.  He  too  had  been  aware  of  rivalry ; 
and,  having  surmised  Tommy  Lark's  intention,  he 
had  sought  the  maid  out  unwittingly,  not  an  hour 
after  her  passionate  adventure  with  Tommy  Lark, 
and  had  then  cast  the  die  of  his  own  happiness. 

In  both  cases  the  effect  had  been  the  same.  Eliza- 
beth Luke  had  wept  and  fled  to  her  mother  like  a 


32 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


frightened  chUd;  and  she  had  thereafter  protested, 
with  tears  of  indecision,  torn  this  way  and  that 
until  her  heart  ached  beyond  endurance,  that  she 
was  not  sure  of  her  love  for  either,  but  felt  that 
she  loved  both,  nor  could  tell  whom  she  loved  the 
most,  if  either  at  all.  In  this  agony  of  confusion, 
terrifying  for  a  maid,  she  had  fled  beyond  her 
mother's  arms,  to  her  grandmother's  cottage  at 
Grace  Harbor,  there  to  deliberate  and  decide,  as  she 
said;  and  she  had  promised  to  speed  her  conclusion 
with  all  the  determination  she  could  command,  and 
to  retuiii  a  letter  of  decision. 

In  simple  commuiuties,  such  as  Scalawag  Har- 
bor, a  telegram  is  a  shocking  incident.  Bad  news 
must  be  sped;  good  news  may  await  a  convenient 
time.  A  telegram  signifies  the  very  desperation  of 
haste  and  need-^t  conveys  news  only  of  the  most 
momentous  import;  and  upon  every  man  into 
whose  hands  it  falls  it  lays  a  grave  obligation  to 
expedite  its  delivery.  Tommy  Lark  had  never  be- 
fore touched  a  telegram;  he  had  never  before, 
clapped  eyes  on  one.  He  viras  vaguely  aware  of  the 
telegram  as  a  mystery  of  wire  and  a  peculiar  cun- 
ning of  men.  Telegrams  had  come  to  Scalawag 
Harbor  in  times  of  disaster  in  the  course  of  Tommy 
Lark's  nineteen  years  of  life.  Widow  Mull,  for 
example,  when  the  White  Wolf  was  cast  away  at 
the  ice,  with  George  MuU  f oimd  frozen  on  the  floe, 
had  been  told  of  it  in  a  telegram. 
AM  Ae  while,  thus.  Tommy  Lark's  conception  of 


Madman's  Luck 


33 


the  urgency  of  the  matter  mounted  high  and  op- 
pressed him.  Elizabeth  Luke  would  not  lightly  dis- 
patch a  telegram  from  Grace  Harbor  to  her  mother 
at  Scalawag.  All  the  way  from  Grace  Harbor? 
Not  so !  After  all,  this  could  be  no  message  having 
to  do  with  the  affairs  of  Tommy  Lark  and  Sandy 
Rowl.  Elizabeth  would  not  have  telegraphed  such 
sentimental  news.  She  would  have  written  a  letter. 
Something  was  gone  awry  with  the  maid.  She  was 
in  trouble.  She  was  in  need.  She  was  ill.  She 
might  be  dying.  And  the  more  Tommy  Lark  re- 
flected, as  he  climbed  the  dripping  Black  Qiff  path, 
the  more  surely  was  his  anxious  conviction  of  Eliza- 
beth Luke's  need  confirmed  by  his  imagination. 

When  Tommy  Lark  and  Sandy  Rowl  came  to  the 
crest  of  Black  Qiif,  a  drizzle  of  rain  was  falling  in 
advance  of  the  fog.  The  wind  was  clipping  past  in 
soggy  gusts  that  rose  at  intervals  to  the  screaming 
pitch  of  a  squall.  A  drab  mist  had  crept  around 
Point-o'-Bay  and  was  spreading  over  the  ice  in 
Scalawag  Ruil  Presently  it  would  He  thick  between 
Scalawag  Island  and  the  mainland  of  Point-o'-Bay 
Cove. 

At  the  edge  of  the  ice,  where  the  free  black  water 
of  the  open  met  the  huddled  floe,  the  sea  was  break- 
ing. There  was  a  tossing  line  of  w^'te  water — 
the  crests  of  the  breakers  flying  away  in  spindrift 
like  long  white  manes  in  the  wind.  Even  from  the 
crest  of  Black  Qiff,  lifted  high  above  the  ice  and 
water  of  the  gray  prospect  below,  it  vras  plain  that 


84 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


a  stupendous  sea  was  running  in  from  the  dark- 
ening open,  slipping  under  the  floe,  swelling 
through  the  run,  and  subsiding  in  the  farthest 
reaches  qf  the  bay. 

From  the  broken  rock  of  Black  Giif  to  the  coast 
of  Scalawag  Run,  two  miles  beyond,  where  Scala- 
wag Harbor  threatened  to  fade  and  vanish  in  the 
fog  and  falling  dusk,  the  ice  was  in  motion,  great 
pans  of  the  pack  tossing  like  chips  in  the  gigantic 
waves.  Nowhere  was  the  ice  at  rest.  It  was  neither 
heavy  enough  i;or  yet  sufficiently  close  packed  to 
flatten  the  sea  with  its  weight.  And  a  survey  of 
the  creeping  fog  and  the  ominous  approach  of  a 
-.vindy  night  portended  that  no  more  than  an  hour 
of  drab  light  was  left  for  the  passage. 

"  'Tis  a  perilous  task  t'  try,"  said  Tommy  Lark. 
"I  never  faced  such  a  task  afore.  I  fears  for  my 
Ufe." 

"  'Tis  a  madcap  thing  t'  try!" 

"Ay,  a  madcap  thing.  A  man  will  need  mad- 
man's luck  t'  come  through  with  his  life." 

"Pans  as  steep  as  a  roof  out  there !" 

"Slippery  as  butter,  Sandy.  'Twill  be  ticklish 
labor  t'  cling  t'  some  o'  them  when  the  sea  cants 
them  high.  I  wish  we  had  learned  t'  swim,  Sandy, 
when  we  was  idle  lads  t'gether.  We'll  sink  like 
two  jiggers  if  we  slips  into  the  water.  Is  you 
comin'  along,  Sandy?  It  takes  but  one  man  t'  bear 
a  message.    I'll  not  need  you." 


Madman's  Luck 


35 


"Tommy,"  Sandy  besou^t,  "will  you  not  listen 
t'  reason  an*  wisdom?" 

"What  wisdom,  Sandy?" 

"Lave  us  tear  open  the  telegram  an'  read  it" 

"Hoosh!"  Tommy  ejaculated.  "Such  a  naughty 
trick  as  that!    I'll  not  do  it.    I  jus' couldn't." 

"  'Tis  a  naughty  trick  that  will  save  us  a  pother 
o'  trouble." 

"I'm  not  chary  o'  trouble  in  the  maid's  behalf." 

"  'Twill  save  us  peril." 
^  "I've  no  great  objection  t'  peril  in  her  service. 
I'll  not  open  the  telegram;  I'll  not  intrude  on  the 
poor  maid's  secrets.    Is  you  comin'  along?" 

Sandy  Rowl  put  a  hand  on  Tommy  Lark's 
shoulder. 

"What  moves  you,"  said  he  impatiently,  "to  a 
mad  venture  like  this,  with  the  day  as  far  soed  as 
it  is?"  *^ 

"I'm  impelled." 

"What  drives  you?" 

"The  maid's  sick." 

"Huh !"  Sandy  scoffed.  "A  lusty  maid  like  that  I 
She's  not  sick.  As  for  me,  I'm  easy  about  her 
health.  She's  as  hearty  at  this  minute  as  ever  she 
was  in  her  life.  An'  if  she  isn't,  we've  no  means 
o'  bein'  sure  that  she  isn't.  'Tis  mere  guess-work. 
We've  no  certainty  of  her  need.  T'  be  drove  out 
on  the  ice  o'  Scalawag  Run  by  the  guess-work  o' 
fear  an*  fancy  is  a  foUy.     'Tis  not  demanded. 


88  Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

We've  every  excuse  for  lyin'  the  night  at  Pdnt-o'- 
Bay  Cove." 

"I'm  not  seddn'  excuse." 

"You've  no  need  to  seek  it.    It  tiirusts  itself  upon 

fOU." 

"Maybe.  Yet  I'll  have  none  of  it  'Tis  a  craven 
thing  t'  deal  with." 

"  'Tis  mere  caution." 

"Well,  well!  I'll  have  no  barter  with  caution  in 
a  case  like  this.  I  crave  service.  Is  you  comin' 
along?" 

Sandy  Rowl  laughed  his  disbelief. 

"Service!"  said  he.  "You  heed  the  clamor  o' 
your  curiosity.    That's  all  that  stirs  you." 

"No,"  Tommy  Lark  replied.  "My  curiosity  asks 
me  no  questions  now.  Comin'  up  the  hill,  with  this 
here  telegram  in  my  pocket,  I  made  up  my  mind. 
'Tis  not  I  that  the  maid  loves.  It  couldn't  be.  I'm 
not  worthy.  Still  an'  all,  I'll  carry  her  message  t' 
Scalawag  Harbor.  An'  if  I'm  overcome  I'll  not 
care  very  much — save  that  'twill  sadden  me  t'  know 
at  the  last  that  I've  failed  in  her  service.  I've  no 
need  o'  you,  Sandy.  You've  no  call  to  come.  You 
may  do  what  you  likes  an'  be  no  less  a  man.  As 
you  will,  then.    Is  you  comin'  ?" 

Sandy  reflected. 

"Tommy,"  said  he  then,  reluctantly,  "will  you 
listen  t'  what  I  should  tell  you?" 

"I'll  listen." 

"An'  will  you  believe  me  an'  heed  me?" 


Madman's  Luck 


87 


"I'll  believe  you,  Sandy." 
"You've  fathomed  the  truth  o'  this  matter.    Tis 
lot  you  that  the  maid  loves.    'Tis  I.    She've  not 
told  me.    She've  said  not  a  word  that  you're  not 
aware  of.    Yet  I  knows  that  she'U  choose  me.    I've 
loved  more  maids  than  one.    I'm  acqrainted  with 
their  ways.    An*  more  niiids  than  one  have  loved 
me.    I've  mastered  the  signs  o'  love.    I've  studied 
them;  I  reads  them  like  print    It  pleases  me  t'  see 
them  an'  read  them.    At  first.  Tommy,  a  maid  wiU 
not^  teU.     She'U  not  teU  even  herself.     An'  then 
she's  overcome;  an',  try  as  she  may  to  conceal  what 
she  feels,  she's  not  able  at  aU  t'  do  it.    The  signs 
Tommy?    Why,  they're  all  as  plain  in  speech  as 
words  themselves  could  be !  Have  you  seed  any  signs 
boy?    No.     She'U  not  wed  you.     'Tis  not  in  her 
heart  t'  do  it,  whatever  her  mind  may  say.    She'U 
wed  me.    I  knows  it    An' so  I'U  teU  you  that  you'H 
waste  your  labor  if  you  puts  out  on  Scalawag  Run 
with  the  notion  o'  winnin'  the  love  o'  this  maid 
with  bold  behavior  in  her  service.    If  that's  in  your 
mind,  put  it  away.    Turn  with  me  f  Point-o'-Bay 
Cove  an'  lie  safe  the  night     I'm  sorry,  Tommy. 
You'U  grieve,  I  knows,  t'  lose  the  maid.     I  could 
live  without  her.     True.     There's  other  maids  as 
fair  as  she  t'  be  found  in  the  world.    Yet  I  loves 
this  maid  more  than  any  maid  that  ever  I  knowed; 
an'  I'd  be  no  man  at  aU  if  I  yielded  her  to  you 
because  I  pitied  your  grief." 

"I'm  not  askin'  you  t'  yield  her." 


88  Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

"Nor  am  I  wrerJn'  her  away.  She've  jus'  chose 
for  herself.  Is  she  ever  said  she  cared  for  you, 
Tommy?" 

"No." 

"Is  there  been  any  sign  of  it?" 

"She've  not  misled  me.  She've  said  not  a  word 
that  I  could  blame  her  for.  She — she've  been  timid 
in  my  company.    I've  frightened  her." 

"She's  merry  with  me." 

"Ay." 

"Her  tongue  jus'  sounds  like  brisk  music,  an'  her 
laughter's  as  free  as  a  spring  o'  water." 

"She've  showed  me  no  favor." 

"Does  she  blush  in  your  presence?" 

"She  trembles  an'  goes  pale." 

"Do  her  eyes  twijikl?  with  pleasure?" 

"She  casts  them  down." 

"Does  she  take  your  arm  an'  snuggle  close?" 

"She  shrinks  from  me." 

"Does  she  tease  you  with  pretty  tricks?" 

"She  does  not,"  poor  Tommy  replied.  "She  says, 
Tes,  sir!'  an'  'No,  sir!'  t'  me." 

"Ha!"  Sandy  exclaimed.  "'Tis  I  that  she'll 
wed!" 

"I'm  sure  of  it.  I'm  content  t'  have  her  follow 
her  will  in  all  things.  I  loves  the  maid.  I'll  not 
pester  her  with  complaint.    Is  you  comin'  along?" 

"  'Tis  sheer  madness!" 

"Is  you  comin'  along?" 


Madman's  Luck  39 

Sandy  Rowl  8wq)t  his  hand  over  the  prospect  of 
fog  and  spindrift  and  wind-swept  ice. 

"Man,"  he  cried,  "look  at  that  I" 

"The  maid's  sick,"  Tommy  Lark  replied  dog- 
gedly.   "I  loves  her.    Is  you  comin' along?" 

"You  dunderhead  I"  Sandy  Rowl  stormed.  "I 
got  t' got  Can't  you  understand  that?  You  leaves 
me  no  choicer 


When  Tommy  Lark  and  Sandy  Rowl  had  leaped 
and  crept  through  half  the  tossing  distance  to  Scala- 
wag Harbor,  the  fog  had  closed  in,  accompanied 
by  the  first  shadows  of  dusk,  and  the  coast  and  hills 
of  Scalawag  Island  were  a  vague  black  hulk  beyond, 
slowly  merging  with  the  color  of  the  advancing 
night.  The  wind  was  up— blowing  past  with  spin- 
drift and  a  thin  rain;  but  the  wind  had  not  yet 
packed  the  ice,  which  still  floated  in  a  loose,  shift- 
ing floe,  spotted  and  streaked  with  black  lakes  and 
lanes  of  open  water.  They  had  taken  to  the  sea- 
ward edge  of  the  pack  for  the  advantage  of  heavier 
ice. 

A  line  of  pans,  sluggish  with  weight,  had  lagged 
behind  in  the  driving  wind  of  the  day  before,  and 
was  now  closing  in  upon  the  lighter  fragments  of 
the  pack,  which  had  fled  in  advance  and  crowded 
the  bay.  Whatever  advantage  the  heavier  ice  offered 
in  the  solidity  of  its  footing,  ?.nd  whatever  in  the 
speed  with  which  it  might  be  traversed  by  agile, 
daring  men,  was  mitigated  by  another  condition  in- 


40 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


volved  in  its  exposed  situation.  It  lay  against  the 
open  sea ;  and  the  sea  was  high,  rolling  directly  into 
Scalawag  Run,  in  black,  lofty  billows,  crested  with 
seething  white  in  the  free  reaches  of  the  open.  The 
swells  diminished  as  they  ran  the  length  of  the  run 
and  spent  themselves  in  the  bay.  Their  maximum 
of  power  was  at  the  edge  of  the  ice. 

In  Scalawag  Run,  thus,  the  ice  was  like  a  strip 
of  shaken  carpet — its  length  rolling  in  lessening 
waves  from  first  to  last,  as  when  a  man  takes  the 
comers  of  an  end  of  the  strip  and  snaps  the  whole 
to  shake  the  dust  out  of  it ;  and  the  spindrift,  blown 
in  from  the  sea  and  snatched  from  the  lakes  in  the 
mist  of  the  floe,  may  be  likened  to  clouds  of  white 
dust,  half  realized  in  the  dusk. 

As  the  big  seas  slipped  under  the  pack,  the  pans 
rose  and  fell;  they  were  never  at  rest,  never  hori- 
zontal, except  momentarily,  perhaps,  on  the  crest 
of  a  wave  and  in  the  lowest  depths  of  a  trough. 
They  tipped — ^pitched  and  rolled  like  the  deck  of  a 
schooner  in  a  gale  of  wind.  And  as  the  height 
of  the  waves  at  the  edge  of  the  ice  may  fairly  be 
estimated  at  thirty  feet,  the  incline  of  the  pans  was 
steep  and  the  surface  slippery. 

Much  of  the  ice  lying  out  from  Point-o'-Bay  was 
wide  and  heavy.  It  could  be  crossed  without  peril 
by  a  sure-footed  man.  Midway  of  the  run,  how- 
ever, the  pans  began  to  diminish  in  size  and  to  thin 
in  quantity ;  and  beyond,  approaching  the  Scalawag 
coast,  where  the  wind  was  interrupted  by  the  Scala- 


Madman's  Luck  ^,^ 

wag  hills,  the  floe  wai  loose  and  composed  of  a 
field  of  lesser  fragmenU.  There  was  stUl  a  general 
contact— pan  lightly  touching  pan;  but  many  of  the 
pans  were  of  an  extent  so  precariously  narrow  that 
their  pitching  surface  could  be  crossed  only  on 
hands  and  knees,  and  in  imminent  peril  of  being 
flung  off  into  the  gaps  of  open  water. 

It  was  a  feat  of  lusty  agility,  of  delicate,  expe- 
nenced  skiU,  of  steadfast  courage,  to  cross  the 
stretches  of  loose  ice,  heaving,  as  they  were,  in 
the  swell  of  the  sea.  The  foothold  was  sometimes 
impermanent— blocks  of  ice  capable  of  susuining 
the  weight  of  a  man  through  merely  a  momenUry 
opportunity  to  leap  again;  and  to  the  scanty  chance 
was  added  the  peril  of  the  angle  of  the  ice  and  the 
uncertainty  of  the  path  beyond. 

Once  Tommy  Lark  slipped  when  he  landed  on 
an  inclined  pan  midway  of  a  patch  of  water  between 
two  greater  pans.  His  feet  shot  out  and  he  began 
to  slide  feet  foremost  into  the  sea,  with  increasing 
momentum,  as  a  man  might  fall  from  a  steep, 
slimy  roof.  The  pan  righted  in  the  trough,  how- 
ever,  to  check  his  descent  over  the  edge  of  the  ice. 
When  it  reached  the  horizontal  in  the  depths  of  the 
trough,  and  there  paused  before  responding  to  the 
lift  of  the  next  wave.  Tommy  Lark  caught  his  feet; 
and  he  was  set  and  balanced  against  the  tip  and 
fling  of  the  pan  in  the  other  direction  as  the  wave 
slipped  beneath  and  ran  on.  When  the  ice  was  flat 
and  stable  on  the  crest  of  the  sea,  he  leaped  from 


42 


;Jarbor  Tales  Down  North 


the  heavy  pan  beyond,  and  then  threw  himself  down 
to  rest  and  recover  from  the  shudder  and  daze  of 
the  fate  he  had  escaped.  And  the  dusk  was  fall- 
ing all  the  while,  and  the  fog,  closing  in,  thickened 
the  dusk,  threatening  to  turn  it  impenetrable  to  the 
beckoning  lights  in  the  cottages  of  Scalawag 
Harbor. 


Having  come,  at  last,  to  a  doubtful  lane,  sparsely 
spread  with  ice.  Tommy  Lark  and  Sandy  Rowl  were 
halted.  They  were  then  not  more  than  half  a  mile 
from  the  rocks  of  Scalawag.  From  the  substantial 
ground  of  a  commodious  block,  with  feet  spread  to 
brace  themselves  against  the  pitch  of  the  pan  as  a 
man  stands  on  a  heaving  dedc,  they  appraised  the 
chances  and  were  disheartened.  The  lane  was  like 
a  narrow  arm  of  the  sea,  extending,  as  nearly  as 
could  c  '  determined  in  the  dusk,  far  into  the  floe; 
and  thcie  was  an  opposite  shore — another  commo- 
dious pan.  In  the  black  water  of  the  arm  there 
floated  white  blocks  of  ice.  Some  were  manifestly 
substantial:  a  leaping  man  could  pause  to  rest;  but 
many — necessary  pans,  these,  to  a  crossing  of  the 
lane — were  as  manifestly  incapable  of  bearing  a 
man  up. 

As  the  pan  upon  which  Tommy  Lark  and  Sandy 
Rowl  stood  lay  near  the  edge  of  the  floe,  the  sea 
was  running  up  the  lane  in  almost  undiminished 
swells — ^the  long,  slow  waves  of  a  great  ground 
swell,  not  a  choppy  wind-lop,  but  agitated  by  the 


Madman's  Luck 


48 


wind  and  occasionally  breaking.  It  was  a  thirty- 
foot  sea  in  the  open.  In  the  lane  it  was  somewhat 
less— not  much,  however;  and  the  ice  in  the  lane 
and  all  round  about  was  heaving  in  it— tumbled 
about,  rising  and  falling,  the  surface  all  the  while 
at  a  changing  slant  from  the  perpendicular. 

Rowl  was  uneasy. 

"WTiat  you  think,  Tommy?"  said  he.  "I  don't 
like  t'  try  it.    I  'low  we  better  not." 

"We  can't  turn  back." 

"No;  not  very  well." 

"There's  a  big  pan  out  there  in  the  middle.  If  a 
man  could  reach  that  he  could  choose  the  path 
beyond." 

"  'Tis  not  a  big  pan." 

"Oh,  'tis  a  fairish  sort  o'  pan." 

"  'Tis  not  big  enough.  Tommy." 

Tommy  Lark,  staggering  in  the  motion  of  the 
ice,  almost  off  his  balance,  peered  at  the  pan  in  the 
middle  of  the  lane." 

"  'Twould  easily  bear  a  man,"  said  he. 

"  'Twould  never  bear  two  mea" 

"Maybe  not." 

"Isn't  no  'maybe'  about  it,"  Rowl  declared.  "I'm 
sure  'twouldn't  bear  two  men." 

"No,"  Tommy  Urk  agreed.    "I  'low  'twouldn't." 

"A  man  would  cast  hisself  away  tryin'  t'  cross 
on  that  small  ice." 

"I  'low  he  might" 


44 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


>  i 

i    ! 


"Well,  then,"  Rowl  demanded,  "what  we  goin' 
f  do?" 

"We're  goin' t*  cross,  isn't  we?" 

"  'Tis  too  parlous  a  f  ootin'  on  them  small  cakes." 

"Ay;  'twould  be  ticklish  enough  if  the  sea  lay 
flat  an'  still  all  the  way.    An'  as  'tis " 

"  'Tis  like  leapin'  along  the  side  of  a  steep." 

"Wonderful  steep  on  the  side  o'  the  seas." 

"Too  slippery,  Tommy.  It  can't  be  done.  If  a 
man  didn't  land  jus'  right  he'd  shoot  off." 

"That  he  would,  Sandy!" 

"Well?" 

"I'll  go  first,  Sandy.  I'll  start  when  we  lies  in 
the  trough.  I  'low  I  can  make  that  big  pan  in  the 
middle  afore  the  next  sea  cants  it.  You  watch  me, 
Sandy,  an'  practice  my  tactics  when  you  follow.  I 
low  a  clever  man  can  cross  that  lane  alive." 

"We're  in  a  mess  out  herel"  Sandy  Rowl  com- 
plained.    "I  wish  we  hadn't  started." 

"  'Tisn't  so  bad  as  all  that." 

"A  loud  folly!"  Rowl  growled. 

"Ah,  well,"  Tommy  Lark  replied,  "a  telegram's 
a  telegram ;  an'  the  need  o'  haste " 

"  'Twould  have  kept  well  enough." 

"  'Tis  not  a  letter,  Sandy." 

"Whatever  it  is,  there's  no  call  for  two  men  t' 
come  into  peril  o'  their  lives " 

"You  never  can  tell." 

"I'd  not  chance  it  again  for " 

"We  isn't  drowned  yet." 


Madman's  Luck 


45 


"Yet!"  Rowl  exclaimed.  "No— not  yet!  We've 
a  minute  or  so  for  prayers  1" 

Tommy  Lark  laughed. 

"I'll  get  under  way  now,"  said  he.  "I'm  not  so 
very  much  afraid  o'  failin'." 

There  was  no  melodrama  in  the  situation.  It 
was  a  commonplace  peril  of  the  coast;  it  was  a  rea- 
sonable endeavor.  It  was  thrilling,  to  be  sure — 
the  conjunction  of  a  living  peril  with  the  emer- 
gency of  the  message.  Yet  the  dusk  and  sweeping 
drizzle  of  rain,  the  vanishing  lights  of  Scalawag 
Harbor,  the  interruption  of  the  lane  of  water,  the 
mounting  seas,  their  declivities  flecked  with  a  path 
of  treacherous  ice,  all  were  familiar  realities  to 
Tommy  Lark  and  Sandy  Rowl.  Moreover,  a  tele- 
gram was  not  a  letter.  It  was  an  urgent  message. 
It  imposed  upon  a  man's  conscience  the  obligation 
to  speed  it  It  should  be  delivered  with  determined 
expedition.  Elsewhere,  in  a  rural  community,  for 
example,  a  good  neighbor  would  not  hesitate  to  har- 
ness his  horse  on  a  similar  errand  and  travel  a  deep 
road  of  a  dark  nig^t  in  the  fall  of  the  year;  nor, 
with  the  snow  falling  thick,  would  he  confront  a 
midnight  trudge  to  his  neighbor's  house  with  any 
louder  complaint  than  a  fretful  growL 

It  was  in  this  spirit,  after  all,  touched  with  an 
intimate  solicitude  which  his  love  for  Elizabeth 
Luke  aroused,  that  Tommy  Lark  had  undertaken 
the  passage  of  Scalawag  Run.    The  maid  was  ill — 


46 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North  , 


I'. 


her  message  snould  be  sped.  As  he  paused  on  the 
brink  of  the  lane,  however,  waiting  for  the  ice  to 
lie  flat  in  the  trough,  poised  for  the  spring  to  the 
first  pan,  a  curious  apprehension  for  the  safety  of 
Sandy  Rowl  took  hold  of  him,  and  he  delayed  his 
start 

"Sandy,"  said  he,  "you  be  careful  o'  yourself." 

"I  will  that!"  Sandy  declared.  He  grinned. 
"You've  no  need  t'  warn  me.  Tommy,"  he  added. 

"If  aught  should  go  amiss  with  you,"  Tommy 
explained,  "  'twould  be  wonderful  hard — on  Eliza- 
beth." 

Sandy  Rowl  caught  the  honest  truth  and  unsel- 
fishness o''  the  warning  in  Tommy  Lark's  voice. 

"I  thi  is  you,  Tommy,"  said  he.  "  'Twas  well 
spoken." 

"Oh,  you  owes  me  no  thanks,"  Tommy  replied 
simply.  "I'd  not  have  the  maid  grieved  for  all  the 
world." 

"I'll  tell  her  that  you  said  so" 

Tommy  was  startled. 

"You  speak,  Sandy,"  said  he  in  gloomy  fore- 
boding, "as  though  I  had  come  near  t'  my  death." 

"We've  both  come  near  t'  death." 

"Ay — ^maybe.    Well — no  matter." 

"  'Tis  a  despairful  thing  to  say  " 

"I'm  not  carin'  very  much  what  happens  t'  my 
life,"  young  Tommy  declared.    "You'll  mind  that 

said  so.    An'  I'm  glad  that  I  isn't  carin'  very 


Madman's  Luck 


47 


much  any  more.  Mark  that,  Sandy — an'  re- 
member." 

Between  the  edge  of  Tommy  Lark's  commodious 
pan  and  the  promising  block  in  the  middle  of  the 
lane  lay  five  cakes  of  ice.  They  varied  in  size  and 
weight;  and  they  were  swinging  in  the  swell — 
climbing  the  steep  sides  of  the  big  waves,  p'ding 
the  crests,  slipping  downhill,  tipped  to  an  angle, 
and  lying  flat  in  the  trough  of  the  seas.  In  respect 
to  their  distribution  they  were  like  stones  in  a 
brook:  it  was  a  zigzag  course— the  intervals  varied. 
Leaping  from  stone  to  stone  to  cross  a  brook,  using 
his  arms  to  maintain  a  balance,  a  man  can  not 
pause;  and  his  difficulty  increases  as  he  leaps — he 
grows  more  and  more  confused,  and  finds  it  all  the 
while  harder  to  keep  upright.  What  he  fears  is  a 
mossy  stone  and  a  rolling  stone.  The  small  cakes 
of  ice  were  as  slippery  as  a  mossy  stone  in  a  brook, 
and  as  treacherously  unstable  as  a  rolling  stone; 
and  in  two  particulars  they  were  vastly  more  dif- 
ficult to  deal  with;  they  were  all  in  motion,  a'd 
not  one  of  them  would  bear  the  weight  of  a  man. 
There  was  more  ice  in  the  lane.  It  was  a  mere 
scattering  of  fragments  and  a  gathered  patch  or 
two  of  slush. 

Tommy  Lark's  path  to  the  pan  in  the  middle 
of  the  lane  was  definite:  the  five  small  cakes  of  ice 
— he  must  cover  the  distance  in  six  leaps  without 
pause ;  and,  having  come  to  the  middle  of  the  lane, 
he  could  rest  and  catch  his  breath  while  he  chose 


48 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


out  the  course  bejond.  If  there  chanced  to  be  no 
path  beyond,  discretion  would  compel  an  immediate 
return. 

"Well,"  said  he,  crouching  for  the  first  leap, 
"I'm  oflF,  whatever  comes  of  it!" 

"Mind  the  slant  o'  the  ice!" 
■  "I'll  take  it  in  the  trough." 

"Not  yet!" 

Tommy  Lark  waited  for  the  sea  to  roll  on. 

"You  bother  me,"  he  complained.  "I  might  have 
been  half  way  across  by  this  time." 

"You'd  have  been  cotched  on  the  side  of  a  swell. 
If  you're  cotched  like  that  you'll  slip  off  the  ice. 
There  isn't  a  man  livin'  can  cross  that  ice  on  the 
slant  of  a  sea." 

"Be  still  1" 

The  pan  was  subsiding  from  the  incline  of  a  sea 
to  the  level  of  the  trou^ 

"Now!"  Sandy  Rowl  snapped. 

When  the  ice  floated  in  the  trough.  Tommy  Lark 
leaped,  designing  to  attain  his  objective  as  nearly  as 
possible  before  the  following  wave  lifted  his  path 
to  an  incline.  He  landed  fairly  in  the  middle  o^  the 
first  cake,  and  had  left  it  for  the  second  before 
it  sank.  The  second  leap  was  short.  It  was  difficult, 
nevertheless,  for  two  reasons.  He  had  no  time  to 
gather  himself  for  the  impulse,  and  his  flight  was 
taken  from  sinking  ground.  Almost  he  fell  short. 
Six  inches  less,  and  he  would  have  landed'  on  the 
edge  of  the  cake  and  toppled  back  into  the  sea 


Madman's  Luck 


49 


when  it  tipped  to  the  sudden  weight.  But  he  struck 
near  enough  to  the  center  to  restrain  the  ice,  in  a 
few  active  steps,  from  sinking  by  the  edge;  and  as 
the  second  cake  was  more  substantial  than  the  first, 
he  was  able  to  leap  with  confidence  for  the  third, 
whence  he  danced  lightly  toward  the  fourth. 

The  fourth  cake,  however,  lay  abruptly  to  the 
right.  A  sudden  violent  turn  was  required  to 
reach  it.  It  was  comparatively  substantial;  but  it 
was  rugged  rather  than  flat — there  was  a  niggardly, 
treacherous  surface  for  landing,  and  as  ground  for 
a  flight  the  cake  furnished  a  doubtful  opportunity. 
There  was  no  time  for  recovery.  When  Tommy 
Lark  landed,  the  ice  began  to  waver  and  sink.  He 
had  landed  awkwardly,  his  feet  in  a  tangle;  and, 
as  there  was  no  time  for  placing  his  feet  in  a  better 
way,  he  must  leap  awkwardly — ^leap  instantly,  leav- 
ing the  event  to  chance.  And  leap  he  did.  It  was 
a  supreme  effort  toward  the  fifth  cake. 

By  this  time  the  ice  was  fast  climbing  the  side 
of  a  swelling  wave.  The  crest  of  the  sea  was  higher 
than  Tommy  Lark's  head.  Had  the  sea  broken 
it  would  have  fallen  on  him — it  would  have  sub- 
merged and  overwhelmed  him.  It  did  not  break. 
The  wind  snatched  a  thin  spindrift  from  the  crest 
and  flung  it  past  like  a  squall  of  rain.  That  was 
all.  Tommy  Lark  was  midway  of  the  sea,  as  a  man 
might  be  on  the  side  of  a  steep  hill:  there  was  the 
crest  above  and  the  trough  below;  and  the  fifth 
cake  of  ice  was  tipped  to  an  increasingly  perilous 


M 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


angle.  Moreover,  it  was  small;  it  was  the  least  of 
all — a  momentary  foothold,  to  be  touched  lightly 
in  passing  on  to  the  slant  of  the  wide  pan  in  the 
middle  of  the  lane. 

All  this  was  dear  to  Tommy  Lark  when  he  took 
his  awkward  leap  from  the  fourth  cake.  What  he 
feared  was  less  the  meager  proportions  of  the  fifth 
cake — which  would  be  suiKcient,  he  fancied,  to  give 
him  an  imptilse  for  the  last  leap— than  the  slant  of 
the  big  pan  to  which  he  was  bound,  which  was  pre- 
cisely as  steep  as  the  wave  it  was  climbing.  And 
this  fear  was  justified  by  the  event.  Tommy  Lark 
touched  the  little  cake  with  the  toe  of  his  seal- 
hide  boot,  with  the  sea  then  nearing  its  climax, 
and  alighted  prostrate  on  the  smooth  slant  of  the 
big  pan.  He  grasped  for  handhold :  there  was  none ; 
and,  had  not  the  surface  of  the  pan  been  approach- 
ing a  horizontal  on  the  crest  of  the  sea,  he  would 
have  shot  over  the  edge.    Nothing  else  saved  him. 

Tommy  Lark  rose  and  established  his  balance 
with  widespread  feet  and  waving  arms. 

"  'Tis  not  too  bad,"  he  called. 

"Whafs  beyond?" 

"No  trouble  beyond." 

There  was  more  ice  beyond.  It  was  small. 
Tommy  Lark  danced  across  to  the  other  side  of  the 
lane,  however,  without  great  difficulty.  He  could 
not  have  paused  on  the  •■  y.  The  ice,  thick  though 
it  was,  was  too  light. 

"Safe  over!"  he  shouted. 


Madman's  Luck 


51 


"I'm  comin'." 

"Mind  the  leap  for  the  big  pan. 
landin'.    That's  all  you've  t'  fear." 


Tis  a  tiddiih 


Sandy  Rowl  was  as  agile  as  Tonuny  Lark.  He 
was  as  competent — ^he  was  as  practiced.  Following 
the  same  course  as  Tommy  Lark,  he  encountered 
the  same  difficulties  and  met  them  in  the  same  way; 
and  thus  h:  proceeded  from  the  first  sinking  cake 
through  the  short  leap  to  the  second  more  sub- 
stantial one,  whence  he  leaped  with  confidence  to 
the  third,  landed  on  the  rugged  fourth,  his  feet 
ill  placed  for  the  next  leap,  and  sprang  awkwardly 
for  the  small  fifth  cake,  meaning  to  touch  it  lightly 
on  his  course  to  the  big  pan. 

But  he  had  started  an  instant  too  soon.  When, 
therefore,  he  came  to  the  last  leap,  with  the  crest 
of  the  wave  above  him  and  the  trough  below,  the 
pan  was  midway  of  the  side  of  the  sea,  its  inclina- 
tion at  the  widest.  He  slipped — fell;  and  he  rolled 
off  into  the  water  and  sank.  When  he  came  to  the 
surface,  the  ice  was  on  the  crest  of  the  sea,  be- 
ginning its  descent.  He  grs.jped  the  edge  of  it  and 
tried  to  draw  himself  aboard.  In  this  he  failed. 
The  pan  was  too  thick — ^too  high  in  the  water; 
and  the  weight  of  his  boots  and  clothes  was  too 
great  to  overcome.  In  the  trough  of  the  sea,  where 
his  opportunity  was  best,  he  almost  succeeded.  He 
established  one  knee  on  the  pan  aiid  strove  desper- 
ately and  with  all  his  strength  to  lift  himself  over 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


f      , 


i  i 


.;:f 


the  edge.  But  the  pan  began  to  climb  be/ore  he 
succeeded,  leaving  him  helpless  on  the  lower  edge 
of  the  incline;  and  the  best  he  could  do  to  save 
himself  was  to  cling  to  it  with  bare,  striving 
fingers,  waiting  for  his  opportunity  to  renew  itself. 

To  Tommy  Lark  it  was  plain  that  Sandy  Rowl 
could  not  lift  himself  out  of  the  water. 

"Hang  fasti"  he  shouted.    "I'll  help  you  I" 

Timing  his  start,  as  best  he  was  able,  to  land 
him  on  the  pan  in  the  middle  of  the  lane  when  it 
lay  in  the  trough.  Tommy  Lark  set  out  to  the 
rescue.  It  will  be  recalled  that  the  pan  would  not 
support  two  men.  Two  men  could  not  accurately 
adjust  their  weight  Both  would  strive  for  the 
center.  They  would  grapple  there;  and,  in  the 
end,  when  the  pan  jumped  on  edge  both  would  be 
thrown  off. 

Tommy  Lark  was  aware  of  the  capacity  of  the 
pan.  Had  that  capacity  been  equal  to  the  weight 
of  two  men,  it  would  have  been  a  simple  matter 
for  him  to  run  out,  grasp  Sandy  Rowl  by  the  collar, 
and  drag  him  from  the  water.  In  the  circumstances, 
however,  what  help  he  could  give  Sandy  Rowl  must 
be  applied  in  the  moment  through  which  he  would 
remain  on  the  ice  before  it  sank ;  and  enough  of  the 
brief  interval  must  be  saved  wherein  to  escape  either 
onward  or  back. 

Rowl  did  not  need  much  help.  With  one  knee 
on  the  ice,  lifting  himself  with  all  his  might,  a 
strong,  quick  pull  would  assist  him  over  the  edge. 


Madman's  Luck 


AS 


But  Rowl  was  not  ready.  When  Tommy  Lark 
landed  on  the  pan,  Sandy  was  deep  in  the  water, 
his  hands  gripping  the  ice,  his  face  upturned,  his 
shoulders  submerged.  Tommy  did  not  even  pause. 
He  ran  on  to  the  other  side  of  the  lane.  When  he 
turned,  Rowl  had  an  elbow  and  foot  on  the  pan 
and  was  waiting  for  help;  but  Tommy  Lark  hesi- 
tated, disheartened — the  pan  would  support  less 
weight  than  he  had  thought. 

The  second  trial  failed.  Rowl  was  ready.  It 
was  not  that  Tommy  Lark  landed  awkwardly  on 
the  pan  from  the  fifth  cake  of  ice.  He  consumed 
the  interval  of  his  stay  in  regaining  his  feet.  He 
did  not  dare  remain.  Before  he  could  stretch  a 
hand  toward  Rowl,  the  pan  was  submerged,  and 
he  must  leap  on  in  haste  to  the  opposite  shore  of 
the  lane ;  and  the  escape  had  been  narrow — almost 
he  had  been  caught. 

Returning,  then,  to  try  for  the  third  time,  he 
caught  Rowl  by  the  collar,  jerked  him,  felt  him  rise, 
dropped  him,  sure  that  he  had  contributed  the 
needed  impulse,  and  ran  on.  But  when  he  turned, 
confident  that  he  would  find  Rowl  sprawling  on  the 
pan,  Rowl  had  failed  and  dropped  back  in  the 
water. 

For  the  fourth  time  Tommy  essayed  the  crossing, 
with  Rowl  waiting,  as  before,  foot  and  elbow  on 
the  ice;  and  he  was  determined  to  leap  more  cau- 
tiously from  the  fifth  cake  of  ice  and  to  risk  more 
on  the  pan  that  he  might  gain  more — ^to  land  more 


54 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


J   '' 

! 


drcKmspectly,  opposing  his  weight  to  Rowl's 
weight,  and  to  pause  until  the  pan  was  flooded  deep. 
The  plan  served  his  turn.  He  landed  fairly,  bent 
deliberately,  caught  Rowl's  coat  with  both  hands, 
dragged  him  on  the  pan,  leaped  away,  springing  out 
of  six  inches  of  water;  and  when,  having  crossed  to 
the  Scalawag  shore  of  the  lane,  he  turned,  Rowl 
was  still  on  the  ice,  flat  on  his  back,  resting.  It  was 
a  rescue. 

Presently  Sandy  Rowl  joined  Tommy  Lark. 

"All  right?"  Tommy  inquired. 

"I'm  cold  an'  I'm  drippin',"  Sandy  replied;  "but 
otherwise  I'm  fair  enough  an'  glad  t'  be  breathin' 
the  breath  o'  life.    I  wont  thank  you.  Tommy." 

"I  don't  want  no  thanks." 

"I  won't  thank  you.  No,  Tommy.  I'll  do  bet- 
ter. I'll  leave  Elizabeth  t'  thank  you.  You've  won 
a  full  measure  o'  thanks.  Tommy,  from  Elizabeth." 

"You  thinks  well  o'  yourself,"  Tommy  declared. 
"I'm  danged  if  you  don't!" 


An  hour  later  Tommy  Lark  and  the  dripping 
Sandy  Rowl  entered  the  kitchen  of  Elizabeth  Luke's 
home  at  Scalawag  Harbor.  Skipper  James  was  off 
to  prayer  meeting.  Elizabeth  Ltike's  mother  sat 
knitting  alone  by  the  kitchen  fire.  To  her,  then. 
Tommy  Lark  presented  the  telegram,  having  first 
warned  her,  to  ease  the  shock,  that  a  message  had 
arrived,  contents  unknown,  from  the  region  of 
Grace  Harbor.    Having  commanded  her  self-pos- 


Madman's  Luck 


55 


session,  Elizabeth  Luke's  mother  received  and  read 
the  telegram,  Tommy  Lark  and  Sandy  Rowl  stand- 
ing by,  eyes  wide  to  catch  the  first  indication  of 
the  contents  in  the  expression  of  the  slow  old 
woman's  comitenance. 

There  was  no  indication,  however — ^not  that 
Tommy  Lark  and  Sandy  Rowl  could  read.  Eliza- 
beth Luke's  mother  stared  at  the  telegram ;  that  was 
all.  She  was  neither  downcast  nor  rejoiced.  Her 
face  was  blank. 

Having  read  the  brief  message  once,  she  read  it 
again ;  and  having  reflected,  and  having  read  it  for 
the  third  time,  and  having  reflected  once  more, 
without  achieving  any  enlightenment  whatsoever, 
she  looked  up,  her  wrinkled  face  screwed  in 
an  effort  to  solve  the  mystery.  She  pursed  her 
lips,  she  tapped  the  floor  with  her  toe,  she  tapped 
her  nose  with  her  forefinger,  she  pushed  up  her 
spectacles,  she  scratched  her  chin,  even  she 
scratched  her  head;  and  then  she  declared  to 
Tommy  Lark  and  Sandy  Rowl  that  she  could  make 
nothing  of  it  at  all. 

"Is  the  maid  sick?"  Tommy  inquired. 

"She  is." 

"I  knowed  it!"  Tommy  declared. 

"She  says  she's  homesick."  Elizabeth's  mother 
pulled  down  her  spectacles  and  referred  to  the  tele- 
gram.   "  'Homesick,'  says  she,"  she  added. 

"What  else?" 

"I  can't  fathom  it.    I  knows  what  she  means 


M 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


I 


when  she  says  she's  homesick;  I've  been  that  my- 
self. But  what's  this  about  Squid  Cove?  'Tis  Ae 
queerest  thing  ever  I  knowedl" 

Tommy  Lark  flushed. 

"Woman,"  he  demanded,  eager  and  tense,  "what 
does  the  maid  say  about  Squid  Cove?" 

"She  says  she's  homesick  for  the  cottage  in  Squid 
Cove.    An'  that's  every  last  word  that  she  says." 

"There's  no  cottage  in  Squid  Cove,"  said  Sandy. 

"No  cottage  there,"  Elizabeth's  mother  agreed, 
"f  be  homesick  for.    'Tis  a  very  queer  thing." 

"There's  no  cottage  in  Squid  Cove,"  said  Tommy 
Lark;  "but  there's  lumber  for  a  cottage  lyin'  there 
on  the  rocks." 

"What  about  that?" 

"'lis  my  lumber!"  Tommy  roared.  "An'  the 
maid  knows  it  I" 


II 


THE  SIREN  OF  SCALAWAG  RUN 


n 


THE  SIREN  OF  SCALAWAG  RUN 

SCALAWAG  RUN  suspected  the  sentimental 
entanglement  into  which  Fate  had  mischie- 
vously cast  Dickie  Blue  and  pretty  Peggie 
Lacey  and  there  abandoned  them;  and  Scalawag 
Run  was  inclined  to  be  more  scornful  than  sym- 
pathetic. What  Dickie  Blue  should  have  done  in 
the  circumstances  was  transparent  to  every  young 
blade  in  the  harbor — an  instant,  bold  behavior, 
issuing  immediately  in  the  festive  popping  of  guns 
at  a  wedding  and  a  hearty  charivari  thereafter; 
and  those  soft  devices  to  which  pretty  Peggy  Lacey 
should  have  resorted  without  scruple  in  her  own 
relief,  were  not  unknown,  you  may  be  sure,  to  the 
wise,  whispering  maids  of  the  place.  It  was  too 
complacently  agreed  that  the  situation,  being  left 
to  the  direction  and  mastery  of  Time,  would  pro- 
ceed to  a  happy  conclusion  as  a  matter  of  course. 
There  would  be  a  conjunction  of  the  light  of  the 
moon,  for  example,  with  the  soft,  love-lorn  weather 
of  June— the  shadows  of  the  alders  on  the  wind- 
ing road  to  Squid  Cove  and  the  sleepy  tinkle  of 
the  goats'  bells  dropping  down  from  the  slopes  of 
The  Topmast  into  the  murmur  of  the  sea.  There 
w 


60 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


had  been  just  such  favorable  auspices  of  late,  how- 
ever— June  moonlight  and  the  music  of  a  languor- 
ous night,  with  Dickie  Blue  and  pretty  Peggy  Lacey 
meandering  the  shadowy  Squid  Cove  road  together ; 
and  the  experience  of  Scalawag  Run  was  still  de- 
fied— ^no  blushes  and  laughter  and  shining  news  of 
a  wedding  at  Scalawag  Run. 

Dickie  Blue,  returning  from  the  Squid  Cove  road, 
found  his  father,  Skipper  John,  waiting  at  the  gate. 

"Well?"  Skipper  John  demanded. 

"  'Tis  I,  sir." 

"I  knows  that.  I  been  waitin'  for  you.  How'd 
ye  get  along  the  night?" 

"I  got  along  well  enough." 

"How  far  did  yer  get  along?" 

"I— I  proceeded." 

"What  did  ye  do?" 

"Who,  sir?"  Dickie  repKed.    "Me?" 

"Ay,  you!    Who  else?" 

"I  didn't  do  nothin'  much,"  said  Dickie. 

"Ha!"  Skipper  John  snorted.  "Nothin'  nmch, 
eh  I   Was  you  with  the  maid  at  all  on  the  roads  7" 

"Well,  yes,  sir,"  Dickie  replied.  "I  was  with 
her." 

Skipper  John  spoke  in  scorn.  "You  was  with 
her!"  said  he.  "An'  you  didn't  do  nothin'  much! 
Well,  well!"  And  then,  explosively:  "Did  you  do 
nothin'  at  all?" 

"I  didn't  go  t'  no  great  lengths  with  her." 

"What  lengths?" 


The  Siren  of  Scalawag  Run  01 

"Well."  Dickie  drawled.  "I " 

Skipper  John  broke  in  impatiently.  "What  I 
wants  f  know."  said  he,  "is  a  very  simple  thing 
Did  you  pop?" 

"Me?" 

Skipper  John  was  disgusted. 

"Ecod !"  he  ejaculated.    "Then  you  didn't!" 

"I  didn't  pop."  said  Dickie.  "That  is— not 
quite." 

"Did  you  come  into  peril  o'  poppin'?" 

"Well,"  Dickie  admitted.  "I  brooded  on  it" 

"Whew!"  Skipper  John  ejaculated.  "You 
brooded  on  it,  did  you  ?   An'  what  happened  then  ?" 

"I — I  hesitated." 

"Well,  well!  Now  that  was  cautious,  wasn't  it? 
An'  why  did  you— hesitate  ?" 

"Dang  it!"  Dickie  complained,  "t"  hear  you  talk, 
a  man  might  think  that  Peggy  Lacey  was  the  only 
maid  m  Scalawag  Run.  I'm  willin'  an'  eager  t' 
be  wed.  I  jus'  don't  want  f  make  no  mistake. 
That  s  aU.  Dang  it,  there's  shoals  o'  maids  here- 
abouts! An'  I  isn't  goin'  t'  swallow  the  first  hook 
that's  cast  my  way.  I'U  take  my  time,  sir.  an'  that's 
an  end  o'  the  matter." 

I'You're  nigh  twenty-one."  Skipper  John  warned. 

"I've  time  enough  yet    I'm  in  no  hurry." 
"Pah !"  Skipper  John  sncrted.    "  'Tis  a  poor  stirJc 
of  a  man  that's  as  slow  as  you  at  courtir/!    No 
hurry,  eh?    What  ye  made  of.  anyhow?    When  I 
was  your  age " 


62 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


H 


"Have  done  with  boastin',  sir.  I'll  not  be  drivetL 
I'll  pick  and  choose  an'  satisfy  my  taste." 

"Is  Peggy  Lacey  a  wasteful  maid?"  Skipper  John 
inquired. 

"No ;  she's  not  a  wasteful  maid." 

"Is  she  good?" 

"She's  pious  enough  for  me." 

"Is  she  healthy?" 

"Nothin'  wrong  with  her  health  that  anybody 
ever  fetched  t'  my  notice.    She  seems  sound." 

"Is  she  fair?" 

"She'll  pass." 

"I'm  not  askin'  if  she  pass.  I'm  askin'  you  if 
she  isn't  the  fairest  maid  in  Scalawag  Run." 

"  'Tis  a  matter  o'  taste,  father." 

"An'  what's  your  taste — if  you  have  any?" 

"If  I  was  pickin'  a  fault,"  Dickie  rephed,  "I'd 
say  that  she  might  have  a  touch  more  o'  color  in 
her  cheeks  t'  match  my  notion  o'  beauty." 

"A  bit  too  pallid  t'  suit  your  delicate  notion  o' 
beauty !"  Skipper  John  scoffed.    "Well,  well  I" 

"I  knows  rosier  maids  than  she." 

"I've  no  doubt  of  it  'Tis  a  pity  the  good  Lord's 
handiwork  can't  be  remedied  t'  suit  you.  Mm-mm  I 
Well,  well!  An'  is  there  anything  else  out  o'  the 
way  with  God  Almighty's  idea  o'  what  a  fair  maid 
looks  like?" 

"Dang  me!"  Dickie  protested  again.  "I  isn't 
denyin'  that  she's  fair!" 

"No;  but " 


The  Siren  of  Scalawag  Run  63 

"Ah,  well,  isn't  1  got  a  right  t*  my  notions? 
What's  the  harm  in  admirin'  rosy  cheeks?  Isn't 
nothin'  the  matter  with  rosy  cheeks,  is  there?" 

"They  fade,  my  son." 

"I  knows  that  well  enough,  sir,"  Dickie  declared; 
"but  they're  pretty  while  they  last.  An'  I'd  never 
be  the  man  t'  complain,  sir,  when  they  faded.  You'd 
not  think  so  ill  o'  me  as  all  that,  would  you?" 

"You'd  not— complain  when  they  faded?" 

"I'd  not  shame  my  honor  so  I" 

"Ah,  well,  Dick,"  said  Skipper  John,  having  re- 
flected a  moment  upon  this  fine,  honest  sentiment, 
"  'tis  not  the  pallid  cheeks  o'  the  maid  Aat  trouble 
you.  I  knows  you  well,  an'  I  knows  what  the 
trouble  is.  The  maid  has  been  frank  enough  t' 
leave  you  see  that  she  cares  for  you.  She've  no 
wiles  to  entangle  you  with;  an'  I  'low  that  she'd 
despise  the  use  o'  them  anyhow.  Did  she  cast  her 
line  with  cunnin',  she'd  hook  you  soon  enough ;  but 
that  she'll  never  do,  my  son— she's  too  proud  an' 
honest  for  that.  Ay;  that's  it— too  innocent  t' 
conceal  her  feelin's  an'  too  proud  to  ensnare  you. 
You  was  always  the  lad,  Dick,  t'  scorn  what  you 
could  have  an'  crave  that  which  was  beyond  your 
reach.  Do  you  mind  the  time  when  you  took  over 
the  little  Robitis  Wing  from  Trader  Tom  Jenkins 
for  the  Labrador  fishin'?  She  was  offered  you  on 
fair  credit,  an'  you  found  fault  with  the  craft  an' 
the  terms,  an'  dawdled  an'  complained,  until  Trader 
Tom  offered  her  t'  Long  George  Long  o'  Hide- 


64 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


an'-Seek  Harbor;  an'  then  you  went  flyin'  t'  Trader 
Tom's  office,  with  your  heart  in  your  mouth,  1-st 
you  lose  the  chance  afore  you  got  there.  Had 
Trader  Tom  withheld  the  Robin's  Wing,  you  would 
have  clamored  your  voice  hoarse  t'  get  her.  Speak 
me  fair,  now — is  you  sorry  you  took  the  Robin's 
Wing?" 

"\  isn't." 

"Is  you  ever  repented  a  minute?" 

"No,  sir.    Why  should  I?" 

"Then  there's  a  hint  for  your  stupidity  in  that 
matter.  Take  the  maid  an'  be  done  with  it.  God 
be  thanked  I  isn't  a  widower-man.  If  I  was,  I'd 
bring  your  chance  into  peri!  soon  enough,"  said  his 
father.  "  'Tis  f  be  a  fair  day  for  fishin'  the  Skiff- 
an'-Punt  grounds  the  morrow.  Go  t'  bed.  I'll 
pray  that  wisdom  may  overcome  your  caution  afore 
you're  decrepit" 

Skipper  John  thought  his  son  a  great  dunder- 
head.  And  Dickie  Blue  was  a  dunderhead.  No 
doubt  about  it  Yet  the  failing  was  largely  the 
fault  of  his  years.  A  strapping  fellow,  this  young 
Dickie  Blue,  blue-eyed  in.  the  Newfoundland  way, 
and  merry  and  modest  enough  in  the  main,  who  had 
recently  discovered  a  critical  interest  in  the  com- 
parative charms  of  the  maids  of  the  harbor.  There 
were  so  many  maids  in  the  world !  Dang  it,  it  was 
confusing!  There  was  Peggy  Lacey.  She  was 
adorable.  Nobody  could  deny  it.  Had  she  worn 
roses  in  her  cheeks  she  would  have  been  irresistible 


j  ' 


The  Siren  of  Scalawag  Run  63 

altogether.  And  there  was  the  new  schoolmistress 
fro- 1  Grace  Harbor.  That  superior  maid  had  her 
points,  too.  She  did  not  lack  attractions.  They 
were  more  intellectual  than  anything  else.  Still, 
they  had  a  positive  appeal.  There  were  snares  for 
the  heart  in  brilliant  conversation  and  a  traveled 
knowledge  of  the  world.  Dang  it,  anyhow,  a  man 
might  number  all  the  maids  in  the  harbor  and  find 
charms  enough  in  each!  Only  a  fool  would  choose 
from  such  an  abundance  <n  haste.  A  wise  man 
would  deliberate— observe,  compare,  reflect;  and  a 
sure  conviction  would  come  of  that  course. 

Well,  now,  pretty  Peggy  Lacey,  pretty  as  she 
was,  was  not  aggressively  disposed.  She  was  a 
passive,  too  sanguine  little  creature;  and  being  lim- 
pid and  tender  as  well,  and  more  loyal  than  artful, 
she  had  failed  to  conceal  her  ardent  attachment 
and  its  anxious  expectancy.  Had  she  loosed  a  wink 
of  challenge  from  her  gray  eyes  in  another  direc- 
tion, the  reluctance  of  Dickie  Blue  might  have  been 
reduced  with  astonishing  rapidity,  and  she  could 
have  punished  his  stupidity  at  will,  had  she  been 
maliciously  inclined.  Conceiving  such  practices  to 
be  both  cheap  and  artful,  however,  and  being,  after 
all,  of  a  pretty  sturdy  turn  of  character,  she  re- 
jected the  advantages  of  deceitful  behavior,  as  she 
called  it,  and  in  consequence  lived  in  a  state  of  cruel 
uncertainty.  Worse  than  that,  she  was  no  longer 
sought;  and  for  this,  too,  she  was  wholly  respon- 


t^^ 


60  Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

liMe.  In  a  spirit  of  loyalty  to  Dickie  Blue,  who 
deserved  nothing  so  devoted,  she  had  repelled  other 
advances;  and  when,  once,  in  a  wicked  mood  of 
pique,  as  she  afterward  determined,  she  had  walked 
with  Sandy  Watt  on  the  Squid  G>ve  road,  the  dis- 
loyalty implied,  mixed  with  fear  of  the  conse- 
quences, made  her  too  wretched  to  repeat  that  lapse 
from  a  faithful  and  consistent  conduct.  She  was 
quite  sure  that  Dickie  Blue  would  be  angered  again 
if  she  did  (he  was  savagely  angry) — that  he  would 
be  driven  away  for  good  and  all. 

"You  must  not  do  it  again,  Peggy,"  Dickie  Blue 
had  admonished.  "Now,  mind  what  I'm  tellin' 
you!" 

"I  won't,"  the  soft  little  Peggy  promised  in  haste. 

"Now,  that's  sensible,"  said  Dickie  Blue.  He  was 
in  earnest.    And  his  purpose  was  high. 

"Still  an'  all,"  Peggy  began,  "there's  no 
harm " 

"What  does  a  maid  know  about  that?"  Dickie 
interrupted.  "It  takes  a  man  t'  know  a  man.  The 
lad's  not  fit  company  for  the  likes  o'  you."  It  was 
true.  "You  must  look  upon  me,  Peggy,  as  an 
elder  brother,  an'  be  guided  by  my  advice.  I'll 
watch  over  you,  Peggy,  jus'  as  well  as  an  elder 
brother  can." 

"I'm  grateful,"  Peggy  murmured,  flushed  with 
pleasure  in  this  interest.     "I  thanks  you." 

"There's  no  call  t'  thank  me,"  Dickie  protested. 
"  'Tis  a  pleasure  t'  serve  you." 


The  Siren  of  Scalawag  Run  87 

"Thank  you,"  said  Peggy. 

Skipper  John  Blue  was  a  hearty  old  codger. 
Pretty  Peggy  Lacey,  whose  father  had  been  cast 
away  in  the  Sink  or  Swim,  long  ago,  on  the  reefs 
off  Thumb-an'-Finger  of  the  Labrador,  loved  and 
used  him  like  a  father  and  found  him  sufficient  to 
her  need.  To  pretty  Peggy  Lacey,  then  Skipper 
John  cautiously  repeated  the  substance  <  .  his  con- 
versation with  Dickie  Blue,  adding  a  wlir  ^er  oi 
artful  advice  and  a  chuckle  of  deligh  ;  -  it  J  gg) 
Lacey  was  appalled  by  the  deceitful  pr;ittice  d  .;- 
closed  by  Skipper  John,  whose  siphisti.at'rti  .h'; 
suspected  and  deplored.  She  had  no  notim  at  all, 
said  she,  that  such  evil  as  he  described  could  wall; 
abroad  and  unshamed  in  the  good  world,  lu.d  she 
wondered  what  old  mischief  of  his  youth  had  in- 
formed him;  and  she  would  die  a  maid,  loveless 
and  childless,  she  declared,  rather  than  have  the 
guilt  of  a  deception  of  such  magnitude  on  her  soul. 
Moreover,  where  were  the  means  to  be  procured 
for  executing  the  enormity?  There  was  nothing 
of  the  sort,  she  was  sure,  in  Trader  Tom  Jenkins's 
shop  at  Scalawag  Run.  There  was  nothing  of  the 
sort  to  be  had  anywhere  short  of  St.  John's;  and 
as  for  sanctioning  a  plan  so  bold  as  sending  a  letter 
and  a  post-office  order  to  Skipper  John's  old  friend 
in  St.  John's,  the  lively  widow  o'  the  late  Cap'n 
Saul  Nash,  o'  the  Royal  Bloodhound,  pretty  Peggy 
Lacey  jus'  pos'tively  would  not  do  no  such  thing. 


68 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


Skipper  John  found  his  head  convenient  to  assist 
the  expression  of  his  emotion.    He  scratched  it. 

^  "Well,  I'm  bewildered,"  said  he,  "an"  I'm  not  able 
t'  help  you  at  all  no  more." 
"I'll  have  nobody's  help,"  Peggy  Lacey  retorted. 
"Why  not,  Peggy?" 

"I've  my  pride  t'  serve." 

"My  dear,"  said  Skipper  John  gravely,  "you've 
also  your  happiness  t'  gain." 

"I'll  gain  it  alone." 

"Aw,  now,  Peggy,"  Skipper  John  coaxed,  with 
a  forefinger  under  Peggy's  little  chin,  "you'd  take 
my  help  in  this  an'  in  all  things,  wouldn't  ye?  You 
is  jus'  so  used  t'  my  help,  maid,"  he  added,  "that 
you'd  be  wonderful  lonesome  without  it." 

That  was  true. 

"In  most  things.  Father  John,"  Peggy  replied, 
"I'd  take  your  help  an'  be  glad.  Whatever  im'  all 
about  that,  I'll  have  nobody's  help  in  the  world  t' 
wrin  the  mastery  o'  Dickie  Blue.  Mark  that,  now! 
I  means  it." 

"I've  showed  you  the  way  t'  win  it." 

"  Tis  dishonest." 

"Ay,  but " 

"  'Tis  shameful." 

"Still  an'  all " 

"I'll  not  do  it." 

Again  Skipper  John  scratched  his  head.  "  'Tis 
an  old  sayin',"  he  protested,  "that  all's  fair  in  love 
an'  war." 


The  Siren  of  Scalawag  Run  69 

"  'Tis  a  false  sayin',"  Peggy  declared.  "More- 
over," she  argued,  "an  I  took  your  advice,  an'  done 
the  schemin'  wickedness  that  you  said,  'twould  never 
win  Dickie  Blue." 

"Jus' you  try  it,  maid!" 

"I  scorn  f  try  it!  I'll  practice  no  wiles  whatso- 
ever t'  win  the  likes  o*  Dickie  Blue.  An'  what  would 
I  say  when  he  discovered  the  deception  thereafter?" 

"He'd  never  find  out  at  all." 

"Sure,  he've  eyes  t'  see  with,  haven't  he?" 

"Ay,  but  he's  too  stupid  t'  notice.  An'  once 
you're  wed " 

"No,  no!    'Tis  a  thing  too  awful  t'  plot." 

"An  you  cared  enough  for  the  lad,"  said  Skipper 
John,  "you'd  stop  at  nothin'  at  all." 

Peggy's  great  eyes  clouded  with  tears. 

"I  cares  more  for  he,"  said  she,  "than  he  cares 
for  me.    My  heart's  jus'  sore  with  grief." 

"Ah,  no,  now!" 

"Ay,  'tis !"  Peggy  sobbed.  She  put  her  dark  hair 
against  Skipper  John's  shoulder  then.  "I'm  jus' 
sick  with  the  need  of  un!"  she  said. 

Summer  went  her  indifferent  way,  and  Winter 
blustered  into  the  past,  too,  without  serving  the 
emotions  of  Scalawag  Run;  and  a  new  Spring  was 
imminent — warm  winds  blowing  out  of  the  south, 
the  ice  breaking  from  the  cliffs  and  drifting  out  to' 
sea  and  back  again.  Still  pretty  Peggy  Lacey  was 
obdurately  fixed  in  her  attitude  toward  the  sly  sug- 


70 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


I'i 


l!li   [( 


ill 


gestion  of  Skipper  John  Blue.  Suffer  she  did — 
that  deeply ;  but  she  sighed  in  secret  and  husbanded 
her  patience  with  what  stoicism  she  could  command. 
There  were  times,  twilight  falling  on  the  world  of 
sea  and  rock  beyond  the  kitchen  window,  with  the 
last  fire  of  the  sun  failing  in  the  west  like  a  bright 
hope — there  were  hours  when  her  fear  of  the  issue 
was  so  poignant  that  her  decision  trembled.  The 
weather  mellowed ;  the  temptation  gathered  strength 
and  renewed  itself  persistently — the  temptation  dis- 
creetly to  accept  the  aid  of  artifice.  After  all,  what 
matter?  'Twas  surely  a  thing  o'  small  consequence. 
An'  who  would  ever  hear  the  least  whisper  about  it  ? 
For  a  long  time  Peggy  Lacey  rejected  the  eager 
promptings  of  her  love— clenched  her  little  red  fists 
and  called  ber  pride  to  the  rescue;  and  then,  all  at 
once,  of  a  yellow  day,  having  chanced  to  glance  out 
of  the  window  and  down  the  harbor  in  the  direction 
of  Cottage  Point,  and  having  dapped  eyes  on  a  sight 
that  pinched  and  shook  the  very  heart  of  her,  she 
was  changed  in  a  twinkling  into  the  Siren  of  Scala- 
wag Rim. 

Peggy  Lacey  sped  forthwith  to  Skipper  John, 
whom  she  found  alone  in  his  kitchen,  oiling  his  seal- 
ing-gun. 

"Father  John,"  she  demanded,  "what's  all  this  I 
sees  goin'  on  on  the  tip  o'  Cottage  Point?" 

Skipper  John  glanced  out  of  the  wide  kitchen 
window. 

"Ah,"  said  he,  "that's  on'y  young  Dickie  at  labor. 


mms-'om^! 


The  Siren  of  ScaUwag  Run  71 

He've  selected  that  pretty  spot  an'  is  haulin'  his 
lumber  afore  the  snow's  gone." 

"Haulin'  his  lumber?"  Peggy  gasped. 

"Mm-m." 

"Haulin'  1-1-lumberI" 

"Mm-m.  I  sees  he've  ol'  Tog  in  harness  writh 
the  rest  o' the  dogs.  WeU,  wdl!  Tog's  too  old  for 
that  labor." 

"Who's  the  maid?" 

"Maid!" 

"What's  he  haulin'  lumber  for?" 

"I  'low  he's  haulin'  lumber  jus'  for  the  same  rea- 
son that  any  young  fellow  would  haul  lumber  for 
in  the  Spring  o'  the  year." 

"  'Tis  a  new  house,  isn't  it?" 

"Ay;  'tis  a  new  house.  He've  been  plannin'  t* 
build  his  house  this  long  time,  as  you  knows  very 
well,  an'  now  he've  gone  at  it  in  a  forehanded  way." 

"Well,  then,"  Peggy  insisted,  finding  it  hard  to 
command  breath  for  the  question,  "who's  the 
maid  ?" 

"No  maid  in  particular  that  I  knows  of." 
"Well,  I  knows!"  Peggy  flashed.    "  'Tis  the  new 
schoolmistress   from  Grace  Harbor.     That's  who 
'tis!" 

"Ah-ha!"  said  Skipper  John. 
"Yes,  'tis!     She've  cotched  his  fancy  with  her 
eyeglasses  an'  grammar.    The  false,  simperin',  tit- 
terin'cat!    Oh,  poor  Dickie  Blue!" 
"Whew!" 


mmm. 


72 


I*   i 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


II 


"She'd  never  do  for  un,  Skipper  John." 

"No?" 

"Never.  They're  not  suited  to  each  other  at  all. 
He'd  be  mis'able  with  her." 

Skipper  John  grinned. 

"Poor  Dickie!"  he  sighed. 

Peggy  Lacey  was  in  tears  at  last 

"Father  John,"  she  sobbed,  "I'm  jus'  desperate 
with  fear  an'  grief.  I  can't  bear  it  no  longer."  She 
began  to  pace  the  floor  in  a  tamult  of  emotion.  "I 
can't  breathe,"  said  she.  "I'm  stifled.  My  heart's 
like  t'  burst  with  pain."  She  paused — she  turned  to 
Skipper  John,  swaying  where  she  stood,  her  hands 
pitifully  reaching  toward  the  old  man,  her  face 
gray  and  dull  with  the  agony  she  could  no  longer 
endure;  and  her  eyes  closed,  and  her  head  dropped, 
and  her  voice  fell  to  a  broken  whisper.  "Oh,  hold 
me!"  die  entreated.    "I'm  sick.    I'll  fall." 

Skipper  John  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"Ah,  hush!"  he  crooned.  "Tis  not  so  bad  as 
all  that  An'  he's  not  worth  it,  the  great  dum'er- 
head!" 

Peggy  Lacey  pushed  Skipper  John  away. 

"I'll  not  yield  t'  nobody!"  she  stormed,  her  soft 
little  face  gone  hard  with  a  savage  determination. 
Her  red  httle  lips  curled  and  the  nostrils  of  her 
saucy  little  nose  contemptuoudy  expanded.  "I've 
neither  eye-glasses  nor  grammar,"  said  she,  "but 
I'll  ensnare  Dickie  Blue  for  all  that." 
"I  would,"  said  Skipper  John. 


liiP 


The  Siren  of  Scalawag  Run  78 

"I  will!" 

"An'  without  scruple!" 

"Not  a  twinge !" 

"I'd  have  no  mercy." 

"Not  I!" 

"An'  I'd  encourage  no  delay." 

'Skipper  John,  do  you  write  that  letter  t'  St. 
John's  this  very  day,"  said  Peggy,  her  soft,  slender 
little  body  magnificently  drawn  up  to  the  best  of 
its  alluring  inches.  She  snapped,  "We'U  see  what 
conies  o'  that!" 

"Hoosh !"  Skipper  John  gloated. 

"Waste  no  time,  sir.    'Tis  a  ticklish  matter." 

"The  answer  will  be  shipped  straight  t'  you, 
Peggy.  'Twill  be  here  in  less 'n  a  fortnight."  Skip- 
per John  broke  into  a  wild  guffaw  of  laughter. 
"An'  Dickie  himself  will  fetch  the  trap  for  his  own 
feet,  ecod!" 

Peggy  remained  giive. 

"I'm  determined,"  she  declared.  "There's  noth- 
in'  will  stop  me  now.    I'll  do  it,  no  matter  what." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Skipper  John.  "I  'low  'tis  all 
over  but  the  weddin'." 

Skipper  John  privately  thought,  after  aU,  that  a 
good  deal  of  fuss  was  being  made  over  the  likes 
o'  Dickie  Blue.  And  I  think  so  too.  However,  the 
affair  was  Peggy  Lacey's.  And  doubtless  she  knew 
her  own  business  well  enough  to  manage  it  without 
ignorant  criticism. 


u 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


In  the  Winter  weather,  when  the  coast  was 
locked  in  with  ice,  and  continuing  until  the  first 
cruise  of  the  mail-boat  in  May,  to  be  precise,  Dickie 
Blue  carried  his  Majesty's  mail,  once  a  fortnight, 
by  government  contract,  from  the  railroad  at  Bot- 
tom Harbor  to  Scalawag  Run  and  all  the  harbors 
of  Whale  Bay.  It  was  inevitable,  therefore,  that 
he  should  be  aware  of  the  c.^nununication  addressed 
to  Miss  Peggy  Lacey  of  Scalawag  Rua;  and 
acutely  aware  of  it  he  was — the  coRimunication 
and  the  little  box  that  seemed  to  accompany  it 
From  Bottom  Harbor  to  All-in-the-Way  Island,  he 
reflected  occasionally  upon  the  singular  circum- 
stance. Who  had  sent  a  gift  to  Peggy  Lacey  from 
St.  John's?  Could  it  have  been  Charlie  Rush? 
Charlie  Rush  was  in  St  John's  to  ship  for  the  ice 
with  the  sealing  fleet  Pausing  on  the  crest  of  Black 
Cliff  to  survey  the  crossing  to  Scalawag  Run,  he 
came  to  a  conclusion  in  relation  to  Peggy  Lacey's 
letter  that  was  not  at  all  flattering  to  his  self- 
esteem. 

The  letter  mystified  Dickie  Blue — ^the  audior  of 
the  communication;  but  he  had  no  difKculty  in  sur- 
mising the  contents  of  the  box  to  his  own  satisfac- 
tion. 

"  'Tis  a  ring,"  he  determined. 

By  that  time  the  day  was  near  spent  Dusk 
would  fall  within  die  hour.  Already  the  wide  flare 
of  light  above  the  wilderness  had  failed  to  the  dying 
ashes  of  its  fire.     Prudence  urged  a  return  to  the 


The  Siren  of  Scalawag  Run  75 

cottage  at  Point-o'-Bay  Cove  for  the  night.    True, 
it  was  not  far  from  Black  Qiff  across  the  run  to  the 
first  rocks  of  Scalawag.    It  was  short  of  a  mile,  at 
any  rate.     Dickie  could  glimpse  the  lights  of  the 
Scalawag  hiUs— the  folk  were  lighting  the  lamps  in 
the  kitchens ;  and  he  fixed  his  eyes  on  Peggy  Lacey's 
light,  in  the  yellow  glow  of  which,  no  doubt,  pretty 
Peggy  was  daintily  busied  with  making  a  supper  of 
no  dainty  proportions;  and  he  cocked  his  head  and 
scowled  in  deliberation,  and  he  stood  irresolute  on 
the  brink  of  the  cliff,  playing  with  the  temptation  to 
descend  and  cross,  as  thouj^  a  whiff  from  Peggy 
Lacey's  kitchen  stove  had  invited  and  challenged 
htm  over.    It  was  not  so  much  the  visionary  whiff 
of  Peggy  Lacey's  supper,  however,  that  challenged 
his  courage:  it  was  Peggy  Lacey's  letter  in  the  pack 
on  his  back,  and  Peggy  Lacey's  suggestive  packet, 
that  tantalized  him  to  reckless  behavior.     Ah-ha, 
he'd  show   Peggy  Lacey  what  it  was  to  carry 
die  mail  in  a  way  that  a  man  should  carry  it !    He'd 
put  the  love-letter  an'  tiie  ring  in  her  hand  forth- 
with.    His  Majesty's  mail  would  go  through  that 
night. 

"Ha!"  he  gloated.  "Ill  further  her  courtship. 
An'  that'll  settle  her,  ecod!  I'll  show  her  once  an' 
for  all  that  'tis  no  matter  t'  me  whom  she  weds." 

There  were  rtout  reasons,  however,  against  at- 
tempting to  cross  the  run  that  night.  The  lane  was 
filled  from  shore  to  shore  with  fragments  of  ice. 
Moreover,  fog  was  blowing  in  from  the  east  in  the 


76 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


wake  of  the  departing  day,  and  rain  threatened — a 
cold  drizzle.  All  this  being  patent,  the  rain  and 
peril  of  the  passage  in  contrast  with  the  dry,  lighted 
kitchens  of  Point-o'-Bay  Cove,  Dickie  Blue  crossed 
Scalawag  Run  that  night  notwithstanding;  and  the 
mere  circumstance  of  the  crossing,  where  was  no 
haste  that  he  knew  of,  indicated  at  least  the  per- 
turbation of  his  emoH- ?s.  Well,  Peggy  Lacey 
might  wed  whom  she  ,  :jased,  an'  he'd  further  her 
schemes,  too,  at  the  i-sk  of  his  life.  She  should 
have  her  letter  at  once — her  ring  without  delay; 
an'  as  for  Dickie  Blue,  'twas  a  closed  book  of  ro- 
mance— there  were  other  maids  at  Scalawag  Run, 
fairer  maids,  more  intellectual  maids,  an'  he'd  love 
(Me  o'  them  soon  enough. 

When  Dickie  Blue  entered,  Skipper  John  looked 
up,  amazed. 

"Did  ye  cross  the  run  this  night  ?"  said  he. 

"I'll  leave  you,  sir,"  Dickie  answered  curtly,  "t' 
solve  that  deep  riddle  for  yourself.  You'll  not  be 
needing  my  help." 

Skipper  John  reflected. 

"Was  there  a  letter  for  Peggy  Lacey?"  said  he. 
"She've  been  eager  for  a  message  from  St.  John's." 

"There  was." 

"Nothin'  else,  I  'low?" 

"There  was.    There  was  a  packet." 

"Whew!"  Skipper  John  ejaculated.  "That's  a 
pity.    I  been  fearin'  an  outcome  o'  that  sort.    An 


The  Siren  of  Scalawag  Run  77 

1  was  you,  Dick,"  he  advised,  "I'd  lose  no  time  in 
that  direction." 

"  'Tis  not  my  purpose  to." 

"Ye'U  wed  the  maid?" 

"I  wiU  not." 

"Ye  obstinate  dunderhead!"  Skipper  Jdin 
scolded.  "I  believes  ye  I  Dang  if  1  don't!  Go  to! 
Shift  them  wet  clothes,  sir,  an'  come  f  supper.  I 
hopes  a  shrew  hooks  ye.    Dang  if  I  don't !" 

In  gloomy  pen  ,  bation,  in  ill  humor  with  the 
daft  dealings  of  the  world  he  hved  in,  Dickie  Blue 
left  the  soggy  road  and  sad  drizzle  of  the  night 
for  the  warm,  yellow  light  of  Peggy  Lacey's  kitchen, 
where  pretty  Peggy,  alone  in  the  housewifely  oper- 
ation, was  stowing  the  clean  dishes  away.  Yet  his 
course  was  shaped — his  reflections  were  deter- 
mined; and  whatever  Peggy  Lacey  might  think  to 
the  contrary,  as  he  was  no  better,  after  all,  than  a 
great,  blundering,  obstinate  young  male  creature, 
swayed  by  vanity  and  pique,  and  captive  of  both 
in  that  crisis,  Peggy  Lacey's  happiness  was  in  a 
desperate  situation.  It  was  farther  away  at  the 
moment  of  Dickie  Blue's  sullen  entrance  than  ever 
it  had  been  since  first  she  flushed  and  shone  with 
the  vision  of  its  glorious  approach. 

Ay— thought  the  perverse  Dickie  Blue  when  he 
clapped  eyes  on  the  fresh  gingham  in  which  Peggy 
Lacey  was  fluttering  over  the  kitchen  floor  (he 
would  not  deign  to  look  in  her  gray  eyes),  the  maid 


78 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


might  have  her  letter  an'  her  ring  an'  wed  whom 
she  pleased ;  an'  as  for  tears  at  the  weddin',  they'd 
not  fall  from  the  eyes  o'  Dickie  Blue,  who  would 
by  that  time,  ecod,  perhaps  have  consummated  an 
affair  with  a  maid  of  consequence  from  Grace 
Harbor!  Hal  There  were  indeed  others  I  The 
charms  of  the  intellect  were  not  negligible.  They 
were  to  be  taken  into  account  in  the  estimate.  And 
Dickie  Blue  would  consider  the  maid  from  Grace 
Harbor. 

"She've  dignity,"  thought  he,  "an'  she've  learn- 
in'.  Moreover,  she've  high  connections  in  St. 
John's  an'  a  wonderful  complexion." 

Dickie  meant  it.  Ay.  And  many  a  man,  and 
many  a  poor  maid,  too,  as  everybody  knows,  has 
cast  happiness  to  waste  in  a  mood  of  that  mad 
description.    And  so  a  tragedy  impended. 

"Is  it  you,  Dick?"  says  Peggy  Lacey. 

Dickie  nodded  and  scowled. 

"  'Tis  I.  Was  you  lookin'  for  somebody  else  t' 
call?" 

"No,  Dickie." 

It  was  almost  an  interrogation.  Peggy  Lacey 
was  puzzled.  Dickie  Blue's  gloomy  concern  was  out 
of  the  way. 

"Well."  said  Dicky,  "I'm  sorry." 

"An'  why?" 

"Well,"  Dickie  declared,  "if  you  was  expectin' 
anybody  else  t'  come  t'  see  you,  I'd  be  glad  f  have 


The  Siren  of  Scalawag  Ruo  79 

un  do  «o.    Til  a  dismal  evenin'  for  you  f  nod 
alone." 

Almost,  then,  Peggy  Lacey's  resolution  failed 
her.  Almost  she  protested  that  she  would  hKve  a 
welcome  for  no  other  man  in  die  world.  Instead 
she  turned  arch. 

"Did  you  bring  the  mail?"  she  inquired. 
"I  did." 

"Was  there  nothin"  for  me?" 
"There  was." 
"A  letter!" 
"Ay." 

Peggy  Lacey  trembled.    Confronting,  thus  inti- 
mately, the  enormity  she  proposed,  she  was  shocked. 
She  concealed  her  agitation,  however,  and  laid 
St  ong  hands  upon  her  wicked  resolution  to  restrain 
its  flight. 
"Nothin'  else?"  said  she. 
"Ay;  there  was  more." 
"Not  a  small  packet!" 

"Ay;  there  was  a  small  packet.    I  low  you  been 
expectin*  some  such  gift  as  that,  isn't  you?" 
"A  gift !    Is  it  from  St  John's?" 
"Ay." 

"Then  I  been  expectin'  it,"  Peggy  eagerly  ad- 
mitted.   "Where  is  it,  Dickie?    I'm  in  haste  to  pry 
into  that  packet." 
The  letter  and  the  package  were  handed  over. 
"  'Tis  not  hard,"  said  Dickie,  "f  guess  the  con- 


MICROCOfY  USOIUTION   TBI  CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


^  APPLIED  INA/IGE    In 

SS".  <^^-!  Eait   Moin   Street 

_^B  Rochester,   Neo   York         1*609       USA 

^=  (716)   482  -  0300  -  Phone 

S^  (''6)  388  -  5989  -  fax 


80 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


In 


^ 


I  could  surmise  tfaem 


tents  of  a  wee  box  like  that 
myself." 

Peggy  started. 

"Wh-wh-what  I"  she  ejaculated.  "You  know  the 
contents!    Oh,  dear  me  I" 

"No,  I  don't  know  the  contents.  I  could  guess 
them,  though,  an  I  had  a  mind  to." 

"You  never  could  guess.  'Tis  not  in  the  mind 
of  a  man  t'  fathom  such  a  thing  as  that.  There's 
a  woman's  secret  in  this  wee  box." 

"  'Tis  a  ring." 

"A  ring!"  Peggy  challenged.  "You'd  not  care, 
Dickie  Blue,  an  'twas  a  ring  t'  betroth  me!" 

Dickie  Blue  was  sure  that  his  surmise  had  gone 
cunningly  to  its  mark.  Pride  flashed  to  the  rescue 
of  his  self.<steeni.  His  face  flared.  He  rose  in 
wrath. 

"Betrothed,  !s  you?"  he  flung  out  "I'll  weather 
it  maid!    Ha!    I'U  weather  it!" 

"Weather  it!"  cried  poor  Peggy,  in  a  flame  of 
indignation. 

"I'm  not  hurt!" 

"Sit  you  down!" 

"I'U  not  sit  down.    I'm  goin'." 

"Sit  you  down,  oaf  that  you  is!"  Peggy  Lacey 
commanded.  "I'll  read  my  letter  an'  open  my  packet 
an'  return.    Don't  ye  budge !    Don't  ye  dare !" 

Peggy  Lacey  swept  out  of  the  kitchen.  Her 
head  was  high.  There  was  no  compassion  in  her 
heart.     Nor  was  she  restrained  by  any  lingering 


lii  ni 


The  Siren  of  Scalawag  Run  81 

fear  of  the  consequences  of  that  wicked  deceit  to 

the  iimne<Mate  practice  of  which  she  had  committed 

herself     And  as  for  Dickie  Blue,  he  sat  stock-stiU 

where  she  had  bade  him  remain,  his  eyes  wide  with 

thesurpnseofthedominatioa    He  did  not  budge. 
He  did  not  dare. 

Precisely  what  Peggy  Lacey  did  in  the  seclusion 
of  her  chamber  it  would  be  indelicate  to  disclose 
Moreover.  I  am  not  minutely  aware  of  all  the 
mtncaoes  of  the  employment  of  those  mysterious 
nirans  by  which  she  accomplished  the  charming 
effect  that  she  did  in  some  intuitive  way  presently 
accomplish:  and  at  any  rate  I  dedine'the  task  of 
descnptioa     I  confess,  however,  that  the  little 
packet  contained  a  modest  modicum  of  the  neces- 
»»y  materials,  whatever  they  were;  and  I  have  no 
hesitation  in  praising  the  generous  interest,  the  dis- 
cretion and  exuberant  experience  of  the  gay  widow 
of  the  late  Cap'n  Saul  Nash  o*  the  Royd  Blood- 
hound,  whose  letter,  dealing  with  the  most  satis- 
factoiy  methods  of  application,  as  related  to  the 
materials  aforesaid,  whatever  they  were,  and  whose 
wisdom  included  a  happy  wanung  or  two-I  have 
no  hesitation  in  admitting  that  the  letter  was  com- 
pletely sufficient  to  enlighten  the  ignorance  of  pretty 
i'eggy  Lacey.  and  to  steel  her  resolution  and  to 
guide  her  unreluctant  hand  in  its  deceitful  work. 
When  at  last  she  stood  back  from  the  mirror  to 
survey  and  appraise  the  result,  she  dimpled  with 


82 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


delight.  It  was  ravishing,  no  doubt  about  that! 
It  supplied  the  only  lack  of  which  the  disclosure  of 
sly  old  Skipper  John  had  informed  her.  And  she 
tossed  her  dark  head  in  a  proper  saucy  fashion, 
and  she  touched  a  strand  of  hair  to  deliberate  dis- 
array, and  smoothed  her  apron;  and  then  she 
tripped  into  the  kitchen  to  exercise  the  wiles  of 
the  Uttle  siren  that  she  had  become. 

"I've  cast  my  everlastin'  soul  into  the  balance," 
poor  Peggy  accused  herself,  "an'  I  don't  care  a 
whit!" 

All  this  while  Dickie  Blue  had  occupied  himself 
with  more  reasonable  reflection  than  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  entertain.  Doubt  alarmed  him.  Be- 
trothed, was  she?  Well,  she  might  be  betrothed  an 
she  wanted  to!  Who  cared?  Still  an'  all — ^well, 
she  was  young  t'  be  wed,  wasn't  she?  An'  she 
had  no  discretion  in  choice.  Poor  wee  thing,  she 
had  given  herself  t'  some  wastrel,  no  doubt! 
Charlie  Rush!  Ecod!  Huh!  'Twas  a  poor  match 
for  a  dear  maid  like  she  t'  make.  An'  Dickie  Blue 
would  miss  her  sadly  when  she  was  wed  away  from 
his  care  an' affection.  Affection?  Ay;  he  was  won- 
derful fond  o'  the  pallid  wee  thing.  'Twas  a  pity 
she  had  no  color — ^no  blushes  t'  match  an'  assist 
the  roguish  loveliness  o'  the  big  eyes  that  was  for- 
ever near  trappin'  the  heart  of  a  man.  Dang  it, 
she  was  fair  anyhow!  What  was  rosy  cheeks, 
after  all.  They  faded  like  roses.  Ah,  she  was  a 
wonderful  dear  wee  thing!    'Twas  a  melancholy 


The  Siren  of  Scalawag  Run  8S 

pity  that  she  was  t'  be  wed  so  young.  Not  yet 
seventeen!  Mm-m — 'twas  far  too  young.  Dang 
it,  Charlie  Rush  would  be  home  afore  long  with 
the  means  in  his  pocket  for  a  weddin'!  Dang  it, 
they'd  be  wed  when  he  come  I  An'  then  pretty 
Peggy  Lacey  would  no  longer  be 

When  Peggy  Lacey  tripped  into  the  kitchen, 
Dickie  Blue  was  melancholy  with  the  fear  that  she 
was  more  dear  than  he  had  knowa 

"Peggy!"  he  gasped. 

Then  he  succumbed  utterly.  She  was  radiant. 
Roses?  They  bloomed  in  her  round  cheeks  I  Dear 
Lord,  what  full-blown  flowers  they  were!  Dickie 
Blue  went  daft  with  love  of  Peggy  Lacey.  No  cau- 
tion now!  A  flame  of  love  and  devotion!  Splendor 
clothed  the  boy. 

"What  ails  you?"  said  Peggy  d''mtly.  "You 
is  starin'  at  me  most  rudely." 

Dickie  Blue's  mounting  love  thrilled  and  troubled 
him  with  a  protective  concern. 

'Tou  isn't  ill,  is  you?"  he  demanded. 

"111!"  she  scoffed.  "I  never  felt  better  in  all  my 
life.    An'  why  d'ye  ask  me  that?" 

"You're  flushed." 

"I'm  sorry,"  she  replied  demurely,  "that  you've 
a  distaste  for  the  color  in  my  cheeks.    I  wish  I 
might  be  able  t'  rub  it  off  t'  suit  ye." 
smiled, 
iiever  seed  ye  so  rosy  afore,"  said  he.    "You're 
jus'  bloomin'  like  a  flower,  Peggy." 


84 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


"Ah,  well,"  the  mendacious  little  creature  replied, 
with  an  indifferent  shrug  of  her  soft  shoulders, 
"mostly  I'm  not  rosy  at  all,  but  there's  days  when 
I  is.  I'm  sorry  you're  offended  by  rosy  cheeks  like 
mine.  I'll  try  not  t'  have  it  happen  again  when 
you're  about." 

"I'm  not  offended,  Peggy." 

There  was  that  in  Dickie  Blue's  voice  to  make 
Peggy  Lacey's  heart  f'utter. 

"No?"  says  she. 

"Far  from  it." 

"I— I'm  s'prised!" 

"You — you  is  jus'  beautiful  the  night,  Peggy!" 

"The  night?" 

"An'  always  was  an'  always  will  bef" 

"I  can't  believe  ye  think  it." 

Dickie  Blue  went  close  to  Peggy  then.  "Peggy," 
said  he,  "was  there  a  ring  in  the  wee  hox  I  fetched 
you  the  night?'" 

"No,  sir." 

"Is  you  betrothed,  Peggy?" 

Peggy  dropped  her  head  to  hide  the  tears.  She 
was  more  afraid  than  ever.  Yet  she  must  lister., 
she  knew,  and  reply  with  courage  and  truth. 

"I— I'm  not,"  she  faltered. 

"Go<'  be  thani  ^!"  said  Dickie  Blue.  "Ah, 
Peggy,  Peggy,"  he  whispered,  "I  loves  you!" 

"You  mustn't  say  it,  Dickie !" 

"I  can't  help  myself." 

All  at  once  Peggy  Lacey's  conscience  submerged 


The  ijiren  of  Scalawag  Run  85 

her  spirit  in  a  flood  of  reproaches.  There  was  no 
maid  more  false  in  aU  the  world,  she  knew,  than 
her  own  wicked  self. 

"Dickie,"  she  began,  "I— I " 

"Has  you  no  word  o'  love  for  me,  Peggy?  I—I 
jus'  crave  it,  Peggy,  with  aU  my  heart.  Yes, 
I  do!" 

"Stay  jus'  where  you  is!"  Peggy  sobbed.  "Don't 
you  budge  a  incii,  Dickie!  I'll  be  back  in  a 
minute." 

With  that  she  fled.  She  vanished,  indeed,  in  fuU 
flight,  into  that  chamber  whence  she  had  issued 
radiantly  rosy  a  few  moments  before,  once  more 
abandoning  Dickie  Blue  to  an  interval  of  salutary 

reflection.    To  intrude  in  pursuit,  of  course for 

the  whole  troop  of  us  to  intrude,  curious  and  gap- 
ing, upon  those  swift  measures  which  Peggy  Lacey 
was  impetuously  executing  in  relief  of  the  shafts 
of  her  accusing  conscience— would  be  a  breach  of 
manners  too  gross  even  to  contemplate;  but  some- 
thing may  be  inferred  from  a  significant  confi'sion 
of  sounds  which  the  closed  door  failed  altogether 
to  conceal.  There  was  clink  of  pitcher  and  basin; 
there  was  a  great  splash  of  water,  as  of  water 
being  poured  with  no  caution  to  confine  it  to  the 
receptacle  provided  to  receive  it;  th^re  was  the 
thump  of  a  pitcher  on  the  floor ;  and  there  was  more 
splashing,  then  a  violent  agitation,  and  the  trickle 
and  drip  of  water,  and  a  second  and  a  third  violent 
agitation  of  the  liquid  contents  of  what  appeared 


86 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


to  be  a  porcelain  bowl — ^tliC  whole  indicating  that 
the  occupant  of  the  chamber  was  washing  her  face 
in  haste  with  a  contrite  determination  to  make  a 
diorough  success  of  the  ablution.  And  there  was 
silence,  broken  by  gasps  and  stifled  sob*— doubt- 
less a  vigorous  rubbing  was  in  course;  and  then  the 
door  was  flung  open  from  within,  and  Peggy  Lacey 
dashed  resolutely  in  the  direction  of  the  kitchen. 

A  moment  later  Peggy  Lacey  confronted  Dickie 
Blue.  She  was  reckless;  she  was  defiant.  She  was 
tense;  she  was  piercing. 

"Look  at  me !"  she  commanded. 

Dickie  Blue  was  mild  and  smiling.  "I'm  lookin'," 
said  he.    "I  can  look  no  other  where." 

"Is  you  lookin'  close?" 

"Ay.  My  look's  hungry  for  the  sight  o'  your 
dear  face.  I'm  blind  with  admiration.  I  wants  t' 
gaze  forever." 

"Where's  my  roses  now?" 

"They've  fled.    What  matter?" 

"Ay— fled!    An'  where?" 

"They've  retreated  whence  they  came  so  prettily. 
'Tis  a  lure  o'  that  sweet  color  t'  come  an'  go." 

Peggy  gasped. 

"Whence  they  came!"  she  faltered.  "Ah,  where 
did  they  com:  from,  Dickie?    Don't  ye  know?" 

"A  while  gone  you  vras  flushed  with  a  pretty 
modesty,"  Dickie  replied,  smiling  indulgent  explan- 
ation, "an'  now  you  is  pale  with  a  sad  frig.it  at  my 
rough  love-makin'." 


The  Siren  of  Scalawag  Run 


87 


"I'm  not  frightened  at  all.    Look  at  my  nose  I" 

"Tis  the  sauciest  little  knob  in  the  world  I" 

"Look  with  care.    Coimt'em!" 

"Count  what?" 

"There's  three  freckles  on  it" 

"Ay?" 

"An'  a  half." 

"Is  it  so?" 

"There,  now!  I've  told  you  the  truth.  I'm  pal- 
lid.   I'm  freckled.    What  d'ye  think  o'  me  now?" 

"I  loves  you." 

"You  don't  love  me  at  all.  You're  quite  mis- 
taken.   You  don't  know  what  you're  sayin'." 

Dickie  was  bewildered. 

"What's  all  this  pother,  Peggy?"  he  pleaded.  "I 
don't  know  what  you're  drivin'  at,  at  all." 

"I'm  pallid  again,  isn't  I?" 

"What  matter?"  said  Dickie.  "Ah,  Peggy, 
dear,"  he  protested  softly,  as  he  advanced,  glow- 
ing, upon  the  trembling  little  maid  before  him, 
"all  I  knows  is  that  I  loves  you!  Will  you  wed 
me?" 

Peggy  Lacey  yielded  to  his  embrace.  She  sub- 
sided there  in  peace.  It  was  safe  harbor,  she  knew; 
and  she  longed  never  to  leave  its  endearing  shelter. 

"Yes,  sir,"  she  whispered. 

At  that  moment  Dickie  Blue  was  the  happiest 
man  in  the  world.  And  he  ought  to  have  been, 
too!  Dang  me  if  he  shouldn't!  And  as  for  Peggy 
Lacey,  she  was  the  happiest  maid  in  the  world. 


I 

i 


88  liarbor  Tales  Down  North 

which  is  somewhat  surprising,  I  confess — never  so 
happy  as  when,  before  she  sought  sleep  to  escape 
the  sweet  agony  of  her  joy,  she  flung  the  widow 
Nash's  wicked  little  box  of  rouge  into  the  driving 
darkness  and  heard  it  splash  in  the  harbor  below 
her  chamber  window. 


Ill 


THE  ART  OF  TERRY  LUTE 


w 


m 

THE  ART  OF  TERRY  LUTE 

WHEN  the  Stand  By  went  down  in  a  north- 
easterly  gale  off  Dusty  Reef  of  the  False 
Frenchman,  the  last  example  of  the  art 
of  Terry  Lute  of  Out-of-the-Way  Tickle  perished 
with  her.    It  was  a  great  picture.    This  is  an  ama*. 
ing  thing  to  say.    It  doubtless  chall'   ges  a  superior 
incredulity.     Yet  the  last  exampl    of  the  art  of 
Terry  Lute  was  a  very  great  picture.    Incrt^iible? 
Not  at  all.    It  is  merely  astonishing.    Other  mr s- 
ters,  and  of  all  sorts,  have  emerged  from  obsc   .; 
places.     It  is  not  the  less  IJkely  that  Terry  Lt  ,; 
was  a  master  because  he  originated  at  Out-of-the- 
Way  Tickle  of  the  Newfoundland  north  coast. 
Rather  more  so,  perhaps.    At  any  rate,  Terry  Lute 
was  a  master. 

James  Cobden  saw  the  picture.  He,  too,  was 
astounded.  But— "It  is  tl.e  work  of  a  master," 
said  he,  instantly. 

Of  course  the  picture  is  gone;  there  is  no  other: 
Cobden's  word  for  its  quality  must  be  taken.  But 
why  not?  Cobden's  judgments  are  not  generally 
gainsaid ;  they  prove  themselves,  and  stand.    And  it 

91 


M 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


I 
I- "I 

'! 


is  not  anywhere  contended  that  Cobden  is  given 
to  the  encouragement  of  anaemic  aspiration.  Cob- 
den's  errors,  if  any,  have  been  of  severity.  It  is 
maintained  by  those  who  do  not  love  him  that 
he  has  laughed  many  a  promising  yotmgster  into 
a  sour  obscurity.  And  this  may  be  true.  A  nig- 
gard in  respect  to  praise,  a  skeptic  in  respect  to 
promise,  he  is  well  known.  But  what  he  has  com- 
mended has  never  failed  of  a  good  measure  of 
critical  recognition  in  the  end.  And  he  has  un- 
covered no  mares'-nests. 

All  this,  however, — the  matter  of  Cobden's  au- 
thority,— is  here  a  waste  discussion.  If  Cobden's 
judgments  are  in  the  main  detestable,  the  tale  has 
no  point  for  folk  of  the  taste  to  hold  against  them; 
if  they  are  true  and  agreeable,  it  must  then  be 
believed  upon  his  word  that  when  the  Stand  By 
went  down  off  Dusty  Reef  of  the  False  Frenchman 
a  great  picture  perished  with  her — a  great  picture 
done  in  crayon  on  manila  paper  in  Tom  Lute's 
kitchen  at  Out-of-the-Way  Tickle.  Cobden  is  com- 
mitted to  this.  And  whether  a  masterpiece  or  not, 
and  aside  from  the  eminent  critical  opinion  of  it, 
the  tale  of  Terry  Lute's  last  example  will  at  least 
prove  the  once  engaging  quality  of  Terry  Lute's 
art. 


Cobden  firSt  saw  the  picture  in  the  cabin  of  the 
Stand  By,  being  then  bound  from  Twillingate  Har- 
bor to  Out-of-the-Way,  when  in  the  exercise  of  an 


The  Art  of  Teny  Lute  93 

amiable  hospitality  Skipper  Tom  took  him  below  to 
stow  him  away.  Cobden  had  come  sketching.  He 
had  gone  north,  having  read  some  moving  and 
tragical  tale  of  those  parts,  to  look  upon  a  grim  sea 
and  a  harsh  coast  He  had  found  both,  and  had 
been  inspired  to  convey  a  consciousness  of  both  to 
a  gentler  world,  touched  with  his  own  philosophy, 
in  Cobden's  way.  But  here  already,  gravely  con- 
fronting him,  was  a  masterpiece  greater  than  he 
had  visioned.  It  was  framed  broadly  in  raw  pine, 
covered  with  window-glass,  and  nailed  to  the  bulk- 
head; but  it  was  nevertheless  there,  declaring  its 
own  dignity,  a  work  of  sure,  clean  genius. 

Cobden    started.      He    was    astounded,    fairly 
dazed,  he  puts  it,  by  the  display  of  crude  power. 
He  went  close,  stared  into  the  appalling  depths  of 
wind,  mist,  and  the  sea,  backed  oflf,  cocked  his 
astonished  head,  ran  a  lean  hand  in  bewilderment 
through  his  gray  curls,  and  then  flashed  about  on 
Skipper  Tom. 
"Who  did  that?"  he  demanded. 
"That?"    the    skipper    chuckled.      "Oh,"    he 
drawled,  "jus'  my  young  feUer."    He  was  apolo- 
getic; but  he  was  yet,  to  be  sure,  cherishing  a  bash- 
ful pride. 
"How  young?"  Cobden  snapped. 
"  'Long  about  fourteen  when  he  done  that." 
"A  child!"  Cobden  gasped. 
"Well,  no,  sir,"  the  skipper  declared,  somewhat 


M 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


puzzled  by  Gibden's  agitation;  "he  was  fourteen, 
an'  a  lusty  lad  for  his  years." 

Cobden  turned  agiun  to  the  picture;  he  stood  in 
a  frowning  study  of  it 

"What's  up?"  the  skipper  mildly  asked. 

"What's  up.  eh?"  says  Cobden,  grimly.  "That's 
a  great  picture,  by  heaven  I"  he  cried.  "Thafs 
what's  up." 

Skipper  Tom  laughed. 

"She  isn't  so  bad,  is  she?"  he  admitted,  with 
interest.  "She  sort  o'  scares  me  by  times.  But 
she  were  meant  t'  do  that  An'  dang  if  I  isn't  fond 
of  her,  anyhow!" 

"Show  me  another,"  says  Cobden. 

Skipper  Tom  sharply  withdrew  his  interest  from 
the  picture. 

"Isn't  another."  said  he,  curtly.  "That  was  the 
last  he  done." 

"Dead!"  Cobden  exclaimed,  aghast 

"Dead?"  the  skipper  marveled.  "Sure,  no. 
He've  gone  an'  growed  up."  He  was  then  bewil- 
dered by  Cobden's  relief. 

Cobden  faced  the  skipper  squarely.  He  surveyed 
the  genial  fellow  with  curious  interest 

"Skipper  Tom,"  said  he,  then,  slowly,  "you  have 
a  wonderful  son."  He  paused.  "A — wonderful — 
son,"  he  repeated.  He  smiled;  the  inscrutable  won- 
der of  the  thing  had  all  at  once  gently  amused  him 
— the  wonder  that  a  genius  of  rarely  exampled 
quality  should  have  entered  the  world  in  the  neigh- 


The  Art  of  Terry  Lute  95 

borhood  of  Out-of-the-Way  Tickle,  there  aban- 
doned to  chance  discovery  of  the  most  precarious 
sort.  And  there  was  no  doubt  about  the  quality 
of  the  genius.  The  picture  proclaimed  it;  and  the 
picture  was  not  promise,  but  a  finished  work,  in  it- 
self an  achievement,  most  marvelously  accom- 
plished, moreover,  without  the  aid  of  any  tradi- 
tion. 

Terry  Lute's  art  was  triumphant  Even  the 
skeptical  Cobden,  who  had  damned  so  much  in  his 
day,  could  not  question  the  lad's  mastery.  It  did 
not  occur  to  him  to  question  it 

Skipper  Tom  blinked  at. the  painter's  wistftd 
gravity.     "What's  the  row?"  he  stammered. 
Cobden  laughed  heartily. 
"It  is  hard  to  speak  in  a  measured  way  of  all 
this,"  he  went  on,  all  at  once  grave  again.    "After 
all,  perhaps,  one  guesses;  and  even  the  most  cau- 
tious guesses  go  awry.    I  must  not  say  too  much. 
It  is  not  the  time,  at  any  rate,  to  say  much.    After- 
ward, when  I  have  spoken  with  diis — ^this  young 
master,  then,  perhaps.    But  I  may  surely  say  that 
the  fame  of  Terry  Lute  will  soon  be  very  great." 
His  voice  rose;  he  spoke  with  intense  emphasis. 
"It  will  continue,  it  will  grow.    Terry  Lute's  name 
will  live"— he  hesitated— "for  generations."     He 
paused  now,  still  looking  into  the  skipper's  inquir- 
ing eyes,  his  own  smiling  wistfully.    Dreams  were 
already  forming.    "Skipper  Tom,"  he  added,  turn- 
ing away,  "you  have  a  wonderful  soa" 


06 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


*t^ 


"Ay,"  said  tiie  skipper,  brows  drawn;  "an'  I 
knows  it  well  enough."  He  added  absently,  with 
deep  feeling,  "He've  been — jus"  fair  wonderful." 

"He  shall  learn  what  I  can  teach  him." 

"In  the  way  o'  sketchin'  off,  sir?"  There  was 
quick  alarm  in  this. 

Cobden  struck  a  little  attitude.  It  seemed  to  him 
now  to  be  a  moment.  He  was  profoundly  moved. 
"Terry  Late,"  he  replied,  "shall  be — a  master!" 

"Mr.  Cobden,  sir,"  Skipper  Tom  protested,  his 
face  in  an  anxious  twist,  "I'll  thank  you  t'  leave  un 
alone." 

"I'll  make  a  man  of  him!"  cried  Cobden, 
grieved. 

Skipper  Tom  smiled  grimly.  It  was  now  his  turn 
to  venture  a  curious  survey.  He  ran  his  eye  over 
the  painter's  slight  body  with  twinkling  amusement. 
"Will  you,  now?"  he  mused.  "Oh,  well,  now,"  he 
drawled,  "I'd  not  trouble  t'  do  it  an  I  was  you. 
You're  not  knowin',  anyhow,  that  he've  not  made 
a  man  of  hisself.  'Tis  five  year'  since  he  done  that 
there  damned  sketch."  Then  tmeasily,  and  with 
a  touch  of  sullen  resentment:  "I  'low  you'd  best 
leave  un  alone,  sir.  He've  had  trouble  enough  as 
it  is." 

"So?"  Cobden  flashed.  "Already?  That's 
good." 

"It  haven't  done  no  harm,"  the  skipper  deliber- 
ated; "but — well,  God  knows  I'd  not  like  t'  see 
another  young  one  cast  away  in  a  mess  like  that." 


The  Art  of  Teny  Lute  97 

Cobden  was  vaguely  concerned.  He  did  not, 
however,  at  the  moment  inquire.  It  crossed  his 
mind,  in  a  mere  flash,  that  Skipper  Tom  had  spoken 
with  a  deal  of  feeling.  What  could  this  trouble  have 
been  ?  Cobden  forgot,  then,  that  there  had  been  any 
trouble  at  all. 

"Well,  well,"  Skipper  Tom  declared  more 
heartily,  "trouble's  the  foe  o'  folly." 

Cobden  laughed  pleasantly  and  turned  once  more 
to  the  picture.  He  was  presently  absorbed  in  a 
critical  ecstasy.  Skipper  Tom,  too,  was  by  this  time 
stanng  out  upon  the  pictured  sea,  as  though  it  lay 
in  fearsome  truth  before  him.  He  was  frowning 
heavily. 

It  was  the  picture  of  a  breaker,  a  savage  thing. 
In  the  foreground,  lifted  somewhat  from  the  tur- 
moil, was  a  black  rock.  It  was  a  precarious  foot- 
hold, a  place  to  shrink  from  in  terror.  The  sea 
reached  for  it;  the  greater  waves  boiled  over  and 
sucked  it  bare.  It  was  wet,  sUmy,  overhanging 
death.  Beyond  the  brink  was  a  swirl  of  broken 
water— a  spent  breaker,  crashing  m,  streaked  with 
irresistible  current  and  flecked  with  hissing  frag- 
ments. 

Adjectives  which  connote  noise  are  unavoidable. 
Cobden  has  said  that  the  picture  expressed  a  sound- 
ing confusion.  It  was  true.  "You  could  hear  that 
water,"  says  he,  tritely.  There  -vas  the  illusion  of 
noise— of  the  thud  and  swish  of  breaking  water 


98 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


and  of  the  gallop  of  the  wind.  So  complete  was  the 
illusion,  and  so  did  the  spirit  of  the  scene  trans- 
port the  beholder,  that  Cobden  once  lifted  his  voice 
above  the  pictured  tiunult  Terry  Lute's  art  was 
indeed  triumphant  I 

A  foreground,  then,  of  slimy  rock,  an  appalling 
nearness  and  an  inspiration  of  terror  in  the  swirling 
breaker  below.  But  not  yet  the  point  of  dreadful 
interest.  That  lay  a  little  beyond.  It  was  a  black 
ledge  and  a  wave.  The  ledge  still  dripped  the  froth 
of  a  deluge  which  had  broken  and  swept  on,  and 
there  was  now  poised  above  it,  black,  frothy- 
crested,  mightily  descending,  another  wave  of  the 
vast  and  inimical  restlessness  of  the  sea  beyond. 

There  was  a  cliS  in  the  mist  above ;  it  was  a  mere 
suggestion,  a  gray  patch,  but  yet  a  towering  wall, 
implacably  there,  its  presence  disclosed  by  a  shadow 
where  the  mist  had  thinned.  Fog  had  broken  over 
the  cliff  and  was  streaming  down  with  the  wind. 
Obscurity  was  imminent;  but  light  yet  came  from 
the  west,  escaping  low  and  clean.  And  there  was 
a  weltering  expanse  of  sea  beyond  the  immediate 
turmoil;  and  fa.'  '^S,  a  streak  of  white,  was  the 
offshore  ice. 

It  was  not  a  picture  done  in  gigantic  terms.  It 
was  not  a  climax.  Greater  winds  have  blown; 
greater  seas  have  come  tumbling  in  on  the  black 
rocks  of  Out-of-the-Way.  The  point  is  this,  Cob- 
den says,  that  the  wind  was  rising,  the  sea  working 
up,  the  ice  running  in,  the  fog  spreading,  thicken- 


llie  Art  of  Terry  Lute  99 

ing,  obscuring  the  way  to  harbor.  The  imagina- 
tion of  the  beholder  was  subtly  stimulated  to  con- 
ceive the  ultimate  worst  of  that  which  might  im- 
pend, which  is  the  climax  of  fear. 

Cobden  turned  to  Skipper  Tom. 

"What  does  Terry  Lute  call  it?"  he  asked. 

"Nothin'." 

"H-m-m!"  Cobden  deliberated.  "It  must  bear 
a  name.  A  great  picture  done  by  a  great  hand. 
It  must  bear  a  name." 

"Terry  calls  it  jus'  'My  Picture.' " 

I'Let  it  be  called  'The  Fang,' "  said  Cobden. 
^^  "A  very  good  name,  ecodi"  cried  Skipper  Tom. 
"  'Tis  a  picture  meant  t'  scare  the  beholder." 

Terry  Lute  was  not  quite  shamelessly  given  to 
the  practice  of  "wieldin'  a  pencU"  until  he  dis- 
covered that  he  could  make  folk  laugh.  After  that 
he  was  an  abandoned  soul,  with  a  naughty  strut  on 
the  roads.  For  folk  laughed  with  flattering  amaze- 
ment, and  they  clapped  Terry  Lute  on  his  broad 
little  back,  and  much  to  his  delight  they  called  him 
a  limb  o'  the  devil,  and  they  spread  his  fame  and 
his  sketches  from  Out-of-the-Way  and  Twillingate 
Long  Point  to  Cape  Norman  and  the  harbors  of  the 
Labrador.  Caricatures,  of  course,  engaged  him— 
the  parson,  the  schoohnaster,  Bloody  Bill  Bull,  and 
the  crusty  old  shopkeeper.  And  had  a  man  an 
enemy,  Terry  Lute,  at  the  price  of  a  clap  on  the 
back  and  an  admiring  wink,  would  provide  him  with 


100 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


m^i 


a  sketch  which  was  like  an  arrow  in  his  hand.  The 
wink  of  admiration  must  be  above  suspicion,  how- 
ever, else  Terry's  cleverness  might  take  another 
direction. 

By  these  saucy  sketches,  Terry  Lute  was  at  one 
period  involved  in  gravest  trouble:  the  schoolmas- 
ter, good  doctor  of  the  wayward,  thrashed  him  for 
a  rogue;  and  from  a  prophetic  pulpit  the  parson, 
anxious  shepherd,  came  as  near  to  promising  him 
a  part  in  perdition  as  honest  conviction  could  bring 
him  to  speak.  Terry  Lute  was  startled.  In  the 
weakness  of  contrition  he  was  moved  to  promise 
that  he  would  draw  their  faces  no  more,  and  there- 
after he  confined  his  shafts  of  humor  to  their  backs ; 
but  as  most  men  are  vulnerable  to  ridicule  from  be- 
hind, and  as  the  schoolmaster  had  bandy  legs  and 
the  parson  meek  feet  and  pious  shoulders,  Terry 
Lute's  pencil  was  more  diligently,  and  far  more  suc- 
cessfully, employ- d  than  ever.  The  illicit  exercise, 
the  slyer  art,  and  the  larger  triumph,  filled  him 
with  chuckles  and  winks. 

"Ecod!"  he  laughed  to  his  own  soul;  "you  is 
a  sure-enough,  clever  little  marvel,  Terry  Lute, 
me  b'y!" 

What  gave  Terry  Lute's  art  a  profound  turn  was 
the  sheer  indolence  of  his  temperamental  breed. 
He  had  no  liking  at  all  for  labor:  spreading  fish  on 
the  flakes,  keepuig  the  head  of  his  father's  punt 
up  to  the  sea  on  the  grounds,  splitting  a  turn  of 
birch  and  drawing  a  bucket  of  water  from  the  well 


The  Art  of  Teny  Lute  loi 

by  Ae  Needle,  discouraged  the  joy  of  life     He 
fnH      Lu'  '^f?**''  ^  P'"*"'***  *^'  ^^  was  ailing. 

^il!^^'''^  "\  *'  '''^''***  ^«^'"'"':  but  nothing 
availed  hm,  until  after  hours  of  toil  he  achieved 
a  woeful  picture  of  a  little  lad  at  work  on  the  flake 
at  the  dose  of  day.  It  was  Teror  Lute  himself,  no 
doubt  of  It  at  all,  but  a  sad,  worn  child,  with  a  iLne 
oack,  eyes  of  woe,  gigantic  tears-a  tender  young 
IC.TTr'*'  '^^'  ^'  ^"■'^  '"'8'''  ■*  no  '""take 
XovetS'^'''^^"''^''^^'^'--^'' 

"Hut!"  Skipper  Tom  blurted. 

in Z'"'"*  i  ^°fl  '""*  ^'"7's  mother,  bursting 
into  a  new  flood  of  tears. 

After  that,  for  a  season,  Terry  Lute  ran  foot- 
loose and  joyous  over  the  mossy  hiUs  of  Out-of-the- 

"Qever  b'y,  Terry  Lute!"  thinks  he,  without  a 
qualm. 

It  chanced  by  and  by  that  Parson  Down  preached 
with  peculiar  power  at  the  winter  revival ;  and  upon 
this  preaching  old  Bill  Bull,  the  atheist  of  Out-of- 
Ae-Way,  attended  with  scofling  regularity,  sitting 
.n  the  seat  of  the  scomer.  It  was  observed  pres- 
enUy-no  eyes  so  keen  for  such  weather  as  the  eyes 
of  Out-of-the-Way-that  Bill  Bull  was  comTg 
under  conviction  of  his  conscience;  and  when  this 
great  news  got  abroad,  Terry  Lute,  too,  attended 


IM 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


upon  Parson  Down's  preaching  with  regularity,  due 
wholly,  however,  to  hit  interest  in  watching  the  tor- 
tured countenance  of  poor  Bill  Bull.  It  was  his 
purpose  when  first  he  began  to  draw  to  caricature 
the  vanquished  wretch.  In  the  end  he  attempted  a 
moving  portrayal  of  "The  Atheist's  Stricken  State," 
a  large  conception. 

It  was  a  sacred  project ;  it  was  pursued  in  religious 
humility,  in  a  spirit  proper  to  the  subject  in  hand. 
And  there  was  much  opportunity  for  study.  Bill 
Bull  did  not  easily  yield ;  night  after  night  he  con- 
tinued to  shift  from  heroic  resistance  to  terror  and 
back  to  heroic  resistance  again.  All  this  time  Terry 
Lute  sat  watching.  He  gave  no  heed  whatsoever 
to  the  words  of  Parson  Down,  with  which,  indeed, 
he  had  no  concern.  He  heard  nothing;  he  kept 
watch — close  watch  to  remember.  He  opened  his 
heart  to  the  terror  of  poor  Bill  Bull ;  he  sought  to 
feel,  though  the  effort  was  not  conscious,  what  the 
atheist  endured  in  the  presence  of  the  wrath  to 
come.  He  watched ;  he  memorized  every  phrase  of 
the  torture,  as  it  expressed  itself  in  the  changing 
lines  of  Bill  Bull's  countenance,  that  he  might  him- 
self express  it 

Afterward,  in  the  kitchen,  he  drew  pictures.  He 
drew  many;  he  succeeded  in  none.  He  worked  in 
a  fever,  he  destroyed  in  despair,  he  began  anew  with 
his  teeth  clenched.  And  then  all  at  once,  a  windy 
night,  he  gave  it  all  up  and  came  wistfully  to  sit 
by  the  kitchen  fire. 


The  Art  of  Teny  Lute 


108 


"Is  you  quit?"  his  mother  inquired 

"Ay.  Mother." 

"H-m-m  I"  says  SIcipper  Tom,  puzzled.  "I  never 
knowed  you  t'  quit  for  die  night  afor«  I  made 
you." 

Terry  Lute  shot  his  father  a  reproa^iful  glance. 

"I  must  take  heed  f  my  soul,"  said  he,  darkly, 
'  lest  I  be  damned  for  my  sins." 

Next  night  Terry  Lute  knelt  at  the  penitent  bench 
with  old  Bill  BuU.  It  will  be  recalled  now  that 
he  had  heard  never  a  word  of  Parson  Down's  de- 
nunciations and  appeals,  that  he  had  been  otherwise 
and  deeply  engaged.  His  response  had  been  alto- 
gether  a  reflection  of  Bill  Bull's  feeling,  which  he 
had  observed,  received,  and  memorized,  and  so 
possessed  in  the  end  that  he  had  been  overmastered 
by  it,  though  he  was  ignorant  of  what  had  inspired 
it.  And  this.  0)bden  says,  is  a  sufficient  indication 
of  that  mastery  of  subject,  of  understanding  and 
sympathy,  which  young  Terry  Lute  later  developed 
and  commanded  as  a  great  master  should,  at  least 
to  the  completion  of  his  picture,  in  the  last  example 
of  his  work,  "The  Fang." 

At  any  rate,  it  must  be  added  that  after  his  con- 
ve.sion  Terry  Lute  was  a  very  good  boy  for  a 
time. 


Terry  Lute  was  in  his  fourteenth  year  when  he 
worked  on  "The  Fang."  Skipper  Tom  did  not  ob- 
serve the  damnable  disintegration  that  occurred,  not. 


IM 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


WW  Terry  Lute  himself  at  all  aware  of  it.  But  the 
proceu  went  on,  and  the  issue,  a  sudden  diKlosure 
when  it  came,  was  ineviuble  in  the  case  of  Terry 
Lute.  When  the  northeasterly  gales  came  down 
with  fog,  Terry  Lute  sat  on  the  slimy,  wave-lapped 
ledge  overhanging  the  swirl  of  water,  and  watched 
the  spent  breaker,  streaked  with  current  and 
flecked  with  fiagments;  and  he  watched,  too,  the 
cowering  ledge  beyond,  and  the  great  wave  from  the 
sea's  restlessness  as  it  thundered  into  froth  and 
swept  on,  and  the  cliff  in  the  mist,  and  the  approach 
of  the  offshore  ice,  and  the  woeful  departure  of 
the  last  light  of  day.  But  he  took  no  pencil  to  the 
ledge;  he  me.norized  in  his  way.  He  kept  watch; 
he  brooded. 

In  this  way  he  came  to  know  in  deeper  truth  the 
menace  of  the  sea;  not  to  perceive  and  grasp  it 
fleetingly,  not  to  hold  it  for  the  uses  of  the  mo- 
ment, but  surely  to  possess  it  in  his  understanding. 

His  purpose,  avowed  with  a  chuckle,  was  to  con- 
vey fear  to  the  beholder  of  his  work.  It  was  an 
impish  trick,  and  it  brought  him  unwittingly  into 
peril  of  his  soul. 

"I  'low,"  says  he  between  his  teeth  to  Skipper 
Tom,  "that  she'll  scare  the  wits  out  o'  you, 
father." 

Skipper  Tom  laughed. 

"She'll  have  trouble,"  he  scoffed,  "\.hen  the  sea 
herself  has  failed." 


The  Art  of  Teny  Lute  loa 

nwi.  't»U  I  gets  her  off  the  stocks."  l*™™"" 

th^^^UT  ^'"^  ^"''  tentatively  sketched.  Blu  of 
^  whole  were  acco^pli.hed.-fleck.  of  fow,  J 
the  Ines  of  a  current.-«„d  torn  up.  This  ^ 
U^nous.  Here  was  toil,  indeed,  J  T^  Z" 
b^erly  complained  of  it.  'Twas  bother; 'twaZlabo 
there  wasn't  no  sense  to  it.  Terry  Lute's  temper 
w«.t  overboard.  He  sighed  an7shift^  ZZ 
^d  wh.mpered  while  he  worked;  but  he  k.^  ot 
with  courage  equal  to  his  impulse,  toiling  every 

s'rdVm    ff?™'  ""'='  ""  -Patient'motj::: 
shooed  h  m  off  to  more  laborious  toil  upon  the  Usk 

•n  h.,  „,ghtmares.     The  whole  arranjlent  w« 
It  proceeded,  ,t  halted,   it  vam-shed.     Seventeeu 

a  «.ff  of  disgust,  and  a  shuddering  little  whimj^r 

It  was  a  windy  mght  in  the  early  faU  of  the  year 

blowing  high  and  wet,  when  Terry  Lute  dropSd 

hjsc^yonwiththeairofnotwLngto't^r^ 

He  sighed,  he  yawned. 

"I  got  her  done,"  says  he,  "confound  her  I"    He 
J^wned  again. 

'Too  much  labor  lad,"  Skipper  Tom  complained 
/a  Jt  her.'"'^  ^^"^'  •"'*'^-^^-     "'   ^^'^ 


^       I 


106 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


Skipper  Tom  stared  aghast  in  the  presence  of 
this  monstrously  futile  prevarication. 

"Ecod!"  he  gasped. 

"Why,  father,"  says  Terry,  airily,  "I  jus' — 
sketched  her.    Do  she  scare  you?" 

From  Terry  Lute's  picture  Skipper  Tom's  glance 
ran  to  Terry  Lute's  anxious  eyes. 

"She  do,"  said  he,  gravely ;  "but  I'm  fair  unable 
t'  fathom" — pulling  his  b^u'd  in  bewilderment — 
"the  use  of  it  all." 

Terry  Lute  grinned. 


It  did  not  appear  until  the  fall  gales  were  blow- 
ing in  earnest  that  "The  Fang"  had  made  a  coward 
of  Terry  Lute.  There  was  a  gray  sea  that  day, 
and  day  was  on  the  wing.  There  was  reeling,  noisy 
water  roundabout,  turning  black  in  the  failing  light, 
and  a  roaring  lee  shore;  and  a  gale  in  the  making 
and  a  saucy  wind  were  already  jumping  down  from 
the  northeast  with  a  trail  of  disquieting  fog.  Terry 
Lute's  spirit  failed;  he  besought,  he  wept,  to  be 
taken  ashore.  "Oh,  I'm  woeful  scared  o'  the  sea !" 
he  complained.  Skipper  Tom  brought  him  in  from 
the  sea,  a  whimpering  coward,  cowering  degraded 
and  shamefaced  in  the  stem-sheets  of  the  punt. 
There  were  no  reproaches.  Skipper  Tom  pulled 
grimly  into  harbor.  His  world  had  been  shaken 
to  ruins:  he  was  grave  without  hope,  as  many  a 
man  before  him  has  fallen  upon  the  disclosure  of 
inadequacy  in  his  own  son. 


The  Art  of  Terry  Lute  107 

It  was  late  that  night  when  Skipper  Tom  and 
the  discredited  boy  were  left  alone  by  the  kitchen 
hre     The  gale  was  down  then,  a  wet  wind  blowing 
wildly  in  from  the  sea.    Tom  Lute's  cottage  shook 
in  Its  passing  fingers,  which  seemed  somehow  not 
to  linger  long  enough  to  clutch  it  well,  but  to  graso 
in  driven  haste  and  sweep  on.    The  boy  sat  snuggled 
to  the  fire  for  its  consolation;  he  was  covered  with 
shame,  oppressed,  sore,  and  hopeless.    He  was  dis- 
graced: he  was  outcast,  and  now  forever,  from  a 
world  of  manly  endeavor  wherein  good  courage  did 
the  work  of  the  day  that  every  man  must  do.    Skip- 
per Tom.  m  his  slow  survey  of  this  aching  and 
pitiful  degradation,  had  an  overwhelming  sense  of 
fatherhood.    He  must  be  wise,  he  thought ;  he  must 
be  wise  and  very  wary  that  fatherly  helpfulness 
might  work  a  cure. 

The  boy  had  failed,  and  his  failure  had  not  been 
a  thing  of  unfortuitous  chance,  not  an  incident  of 
catastrophe,  but  a  significant  expression  of  charac- 
ter Terry  Lute  was  a  coward,  deep  down,  through 
and  through:  he  had  not  lapsed  in  a  panic;  he  had 
disclosed  an  abiding  fear  of  the  sea.  He  was  not 
a  coward  by  any  act;  no  mere  wanton  folly  had 
disgraced  him.  but  the  fallen  nature  of  his  own 
heart.  He  had  failed;  but  he  was  only  a  lad,  after 
all,  and  he  must  be  helped  to  overcome.  And  there 
he  sat,  snuggled  close  to  the  fire,  sobbing  now,  his 
face  in  his  hands.  Terry  Lute  knew-that  which 
Skipper  Tom  did  not  yet  know-that  he  had  nur- 


ill 


'?  m 


'£.    ! 


109  Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

tured  fear  of  die  sea  for  the  scandalous  delight  of 
imposing  it  upon  others  in  the  exercise  of  a  devilish 
impulse  and  facility. 

And  he  was  all  the  more  ashamed.    He  had  been 
overtaken  in  iniquity;  he  was  foredone. 

"Terry,  lad,"  said  Skipper  Tom,  gently,  "you've 
done  ill  the  day." 
"Ay,  sir." 

"I  'low,"  Skipper  Tom  apologized,  "that  you 
isn't  very  well." 
"I'm  not  ailin',  sir,"  Terry  whimpered. 
"An  I  was  you,"  Skipper  Tom  admonished,  "I'd 
not  spend  time  in  weepin'." 
"I'm  woebegone,  sir." 

"You're  a  coward,  God  help  you!"  Skipper  Tom 
groaned. 
"Ay,  sir." 

Skipper  Tom  put  a  hand  on  the  boy's  knee.  His 
voice  was  very  gentle. 

"There's  no  place  in  the  world  for  a  man  that's 
afeard  o'  the  sea,"  he  said.    "There's  no  work  in  the 
world  for  a  coward  t'  do.    What's  fetched  you  to 
a  pass  like  this,  lad?" 
"Broodin',  sir." 

"Broodin',  Terry?    What's  that?" 
"Jus'  broodin'." 

"Not  that  damned  picture,  Terry?" 
"Ay,  sir." 
"How  can  that  be,  lad?"    It  was  all  incompre- 


"  'You're  a  coward,  God  help  you !'  Skipper  Tom  groaued." 


The  Art  of  Terry  Lute  109 

hensible  to  Skipper  Tom.     "'Tis  but  an  unreal 
thing." 
Terry  looked  up. 
"  'Tis  real!"  he  blazed. 
"  'Tis  but  a  thing  o'  fancy." 
"Ay,  fancy!    A  thing  o' fancy!    'Tis  fancy  that 
makes  it  real." 
"An'  you— a  coward?" 
Terry  sighed. 

"Ay,  sir,"  said  he,  ashamed. 
"Terry  Lute,"  said  Skipper  Tom,  gravely,  now 
perceiving,  "is  you  been  fosterin'  any  fear  o'  the 
sea?" 
"Ay,  sir." 

Skipper  Tom's  eye  flashed  in  horrified  under- 
standing.   He  rose  in  contempt  and  wrath. 
"Practicin'  fear  o'  the  sea?"  he  demanded. 
"Ay,  sir." 

"T'  sketch  a  picture?" 
Terry  began  to  sob. 

"There  wasn't  no  other  way,"  he  wailed. 
"God  forgive  you,  wicked  ladl" 
"I'll  overcome,  sir." 

"Ah,  Terry,  poor  lad,"  cried  Skipper  Tom, 
anguished,  "you've  no  place  no  more  in  a  decent 
world." 

"I'll  overcome." 

"  'Tis  past  the  time." 

Terry  Lute  caught  his  father  about  the  neck. 


110 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


"111  overcome,  father,"  he  sobbed.  "Ill  over- 
come." 

And  Tom  Lute  took  the  lad  in  his  arms,  as  though 
he  were  just  a  little  fellow. 

.\ad,  well,  in  great  faith  and  aflFection  tb'y  made 
an  end  of  it  all  that  night — a  chuckling  end,  accom- 
plished in  the  kitchen  stove,  of  everything  that 
Terry  Lute  had  done,  saving  only  "The  Fang," 
which  must  be  kept  ever-present,  said  Skipper  Tom, 
to  warn  the  soul  of  Terry  Lute  from  the  reefs  oi 
evil  practices.  And  after  that,  and  through  the 
years  since  then,  Terry  Lute  labored  to  fashion  a 
man  of  himself  after  the  standards  of  his  world. 
Trouble?  Ay,  trouble — trouble  enough  at  frst, 
day  by  day,  in  fear,  to  confront  the  fabulous  perils 
of  his  imagination.  Trouble  enough  thereafter  en- 
countering the  sea's  real  assault,  to  subdue  the  rea- 
sonable terrors  of  those  parts.  Trouble  enough, 
too,  by  and  by,  to  devise  perils  beyond  the  common, 
to  find  a  madcap  way,  to  disclose  a  chance  worth 
daring  for  the  sheer  exercise  of  courage.  But  from 
all  these  perils,  of  the  real  and  the  fanciful,  of  the 
commonplace  path  and  the  way  of  reckless  inge- 
nuity, Terry  Lute  emerged  at  last  with  the  reputa- 
tion of  having  airily  outdared  every  devil  of  the 
waters  of  Out-of-the-Way. 

When  James  Cobden  came  wandering  by,  Terry 
Lute  was  a  great,  grave  boy,  upstanding,  sure- 


The  Art  of  Terry  Lute  1 1 1 

eyed,  unafraid,  lean  with  the  labor  he  had  done  upon 
his  own  soul. 

When  the  Stand  By,  in  from  Twillingate  Har- 
bor,  dropped  anchor  at   Out-of-the-Way  Tickle 
James  Cobden  had  for  three  days  lived  intimately 
with    The  Fang."     He  was  hardly  to  be  moved 
from  Its  company.    He  had  sought  cause  of  offense  • 
he  had  found  no  reasonable  grounds.    Wonder  had 
grown  within  him.    Perhaps  from  this  you-g  work 
he  nad  visioned  the  highest  fruition  of  the  years 
The  first  warm  flush  of  approbation,  at  any  rate, 
had  changed  to  the  beginnings  of  reverence.    That 
Terry  Lute  was  a  master-a  master  of  magnitude, 
already,  and  of  a  promise  so  large  that  in  genera- 
tions the  world  had  not  known  the  like  of  it— Tames 
Cobden  was  gravely  persuaded.     And  this  meant 
much  to  James  Cobden,  dear,  aspiring  soul,  a  man 
in  pure  love  with  his  art.    And  there  was  more- 
grown  old  now,  a  little,  he  dreamed  new  dreams  of 
fatherly  affection,  indulged  in  a  studio  which  had 
grown  lonely  of  late;  and  he  promised  himself,  be- 
yond this,  the  fine  delight  of  cherishing  a  youn? 
genius,  himself  the  prophet  of  that  power,  with 
whose  great  fame  his  own  name  might  bear  com- 
pany into  the  future.    And  Terry  Lute,  met  in  the 
flesh,  turned  out  to  be  a  man— even  such  a  man 
m  his  sure,  wistful  strength,  as  Cobden  could  respect! 
There  came  presently  the  close  of  a  day  on  the 
chffs  of  Out-of-the-VVay,  a  blue  vrind  blowing  over 


IK 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


the  sunlit  moss,  when  Cobden,  in  fear  of  the  issue, 
which  must  be  challenged  at  last,  turned  from  his 
work  to  the  slope  behind,  where  Terry  Lute  sat 
watching. 

"Come!"  said  Cobden,  smiling,  "have  a  try." 

Terry  Lute  shrank  amused  from  the  extended 
coi^'>r-bc)x  and  brushes. 

"AH,  no,  sir,"  said  he,  blushing.  "I  used  f, 
though  when  I  were  a  child." 

Cobden  blinked. 

"Eh?"  he  ejaculated. 

"I  isn't  done  nothin'  at  it  since." 

"  'I  put  away  childish  things,'  "  flashed  inevitably 
into  Cobden's  mind.  He  was  somewhat  alarmed. 
"Why  not  since  then?"  he  asked. 

"  'Tis  not  a  man's  work,  sir." 

"Again,  why  not?" 

"  'Tis  a  sort  o'— silly  thing— t'  do." 

"Good  God!"  Cobden  thought,  appalled.  "The 
lad  has  strangled  his  gift!" 

Terry  Lute  laughed  then. 

"I'm  sorry,  sir,"  he  said  quickly,  with  a  wistful 
smile,  seeking  forgiveness;  "but  I  been  watchin' 
you  workin'  away  there  like  mad  with  all  them  little 
brushes.  An'  you  looked  so  sort  o'  funny,  sir,  that 
I  jus'  couldn't  help— laughin'."  Again  he  threw 
back  his  head,  and  once  more,  beyond  his  will,  and 
innocent  of  offense  and  blame,  he  laughed  a  great, 
free  laugh. 

It  almost  killed  James  Cobden. 


IV 

THE  DOCTOR  OF  AFTERNOON 
ARM 


IV 


THE  DOCTOR  OF  AFTERNOON  ARM 

IT  was  March  weather.  There  was  sunshine  and 
thaw.  Anxious  Bight  was  caught  over  with 
rotten  ice  from  Ragged  Run  Harbor  to  the 
heads  of  Afternoon  Arm.  A  rumor  of  seals  on  the 
Arctic  drift  ice  oflf  shore  had  come  in  from  the 
Spotted  Horses.  It  inspired  instant  haste  in  all 
the  cottages  of  Ragged  Run— an  eager,  stumbling 
haste.  In  Bad-Weather  Tom  West's  kitchen,  some- 
what after  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning,  in  the  midst 
of  this  hilarious  scramble  to  be  ofJ  to  the  floe,  there 
was  a  flash  and  spit  of  fire,  and  the  clap  of  an  e.\- 
plosion,  and  the  clatter  of  a  sealing-gun  on  the  bare 
floor;  and  in  the  breathless,  dead  little  interval  be- 
tween the  appalling  detonation  and  a  man's  groan 
of  dismay  followed  by  a  woman's  choke  and  scream 
of  terror,  Dolly  West,  Bad-Weather  Tom's  small 
maid,  stood  swaying,  wreathed  in  gray  smoke,  her 
little  hands  pressed  tight  to  her  eyes. 

She  was — or  rather  had  been — a  pretty  little 
creature.  There  had  been  yellow  curls— in  the  New- 
foundland way— and  rosy  cheeks  and  grave  blue 
eyes;  but  now  of  all  this  shy,  fair  loveliness 

115 


116 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


"You've  kiUed  her!" 

"No— no  I" 

Dolly  dropped  her  hands.  She  reached  out,  then, 
for  something  to  grasp.  And  she  plainted :  "I  idin't 
dead,  mother.  I  juth — I  juth  can't  thee."  She  ex- 
tended her  hands.  They  were  discolored,  and  there 
was  a  slow,  rod  drip.  "They're  all  wet!"  she  com- 
plained. 

By  this  time  the  mother  had  the  little  girl  gathered 
close  in  her  arms.    She  moaned:  "The  doctor!" 

Terry  West  caught  up  his  cap  and  mittens  and 
sprang  to  the  door. 

"Not  by  the  Bight !"  Bad- Weather  shouted. 

"No,  sir." 

Dolly  West  whimpered:  "It  thmart-th,  mother'" 

"By  Mad  Harry  an'  Thank-the-Lord !" 

"Ay.  sir." 

Dolly  screamed— now:  "It  hurt-th!  Oh,  oh,  it 
hurt-th!" 

"An' haste,  lad!" 

"Ay,  sir." 

There  was  no  doctor  in  Ragged  Run  Harbor; 
there  was  a  doctor  at  Afternoon  Arm,  however— 
across  Anxious  Bight.  Terry  West  avoided  the 
rotten  ice  of  the  Bight  and  took  the  'longshore  trail 
by  way  of  Mad  Harry  and  Thank-the-Lord.  At 
noon  he  was  past  Mad  Harry,  his  little  legs  wearing 
well  and  his  breath  coming  easily  through  his  ex- 
panded nostrils.  He  had  not  paused ;  and  at  four 
o'clock— still  on  a  dogtrot— he  had  hauled  down  the 


The  Doctor  of  Afternoon  Ann       117 

chimney  smoke  of  Thank-the-Lord  and  was  bearinc 
up  for  Afternoon  Ann. 

Early  dusk  caught  him  shortcutting  the  doubtful 
ice  of  Thank-the-Lord  Cove;  and  half  an  hour  later 
midway  of  the  passage  to  Afternoon  Arm,  with  two 
miles  left  to  accomplish— dusk  falling  thick  and 
cold,  then,  a  frosty  wind  blowing— Creep  Head  of 
the  Arm  looming  black  and  solid— he  dropped 
through  the  ice  and  vanished. 

Returning  from  a  professional  call  at  Tumble 
Tickle  in  dean,  sunlit  weather,  with  nothing  more 
tedious  than  eighteen  miles  of  wilderness  trail  and 
rough   floe   ice   behind  him.    Doctor   Rolfe   was 
chagrined  to  discover  himself  fagged  out.    He  had 
come  heartily  down  the  trail  from  T  ,mole  Tickle 
but  on  the  ice  in  the  shank  of  the  day-there  had 
been  eleven  miles  of  the  floe-he  had  lagged  and 
complained  under  what  was  indubitably  the  weight 
of  his  sixty-three  years.    He  was  slightly  perturbed. 
He  had  been  fagged  out  before,  to  be  sure.    A  man 
cannot  practice  medicine  out  of  a  Newfoundland 
outport  harbor  for  thirty-seven  years  and  not  know 
what  It  means  to  stomach  a  physical  exhaustion. 
It  was  not  that.    What  perturbed  Doctor  Rolfe  was 
the  smgular  coincidence  of  a  touch  of  melancholy 
with  the  ominous  complaint  of  his  lean  old  legs. 

And  presently  there  was  a  more  disquieting  revela- 
tion. In  the  drear,  frosty  dusk,  when  he  rounded 
Creep  Head,  opened  the  lights  of  Afternoon  Arm 


118  Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

and  caught  the  warm,  yellow  gleam  of  the  lamp  in 
the  surgery  window,  his  expectation  ran  all  at  once 
to  his  supper  and  his  bed.  He -was  hungry— that 
was  true.  Sleepy?  No;  he  was  not  sleepy.  Yet 
he  wanted  to  go  to  bed.  Why?  He  wanted  to  go 
to  bed  in  the  way  that  old  men  want  to  go  to  bed- 
less  to  sleep  than  just  to  sigh  and  stretch  out  and 
rest.  And  this  anxious  wish  for  bed— just  to  stretch 
out  and  rest— held  its  definite  impUcation.  It  was 
more  than  symptomatic— it  was  shocking. 

"That's  age!" 

It  was. 

"Hereafter,  as  an  old  man  should,"  Doctor  Rolfe 
resolved,  "I  go  with  caution  and  I  take  my  er.se." 

And  it  was  in  this  determination  that  Doctor 
Rolfe  opened  the  surgery  door  and  came  gratefully 
into  the  warmth  and  light  and  familiar  odors  of 
the  little  room.  Caution  was  the  wisdom  and  privi- 
lege of  age,  wasn't  it?  he  reflected  after  supper  in 
the  glow  of  the  surgery  fire.  There  was  no  shame 
in  it,  was  there?  Did  duty  require  of  a  man  that 
he  should  practice  medicine  out  of  Afternoon  Arm 
for  thirty-seven  years— in  all  sorts  of  weather  and 
along  a  hundred  and  thirty  miles  of  the  worst  coast 
in  the  world— and  go  recklessly  into  a  future  Ox 
increasing  inadequacy?  It  did  not!  He  had  stood 
his  watch.  What  did  he  owe  life?  Nothir-— 
nothing!  He  had  paid  in  full.  Well,  then,  what 
did  Ufe  owe  him?    It  owed  him  something,  didn't 


The  Doctor  of  Afternoon  Ann        119 

it?  Didn't  life  owe  h  -n  at  least  an  old  age  of  rea- 
sonable ease  and  self  especting  iiidependence?  It 
did! 

By  this  time  the  more  he  retiected,  warming  his 
lean,  aching  shanks  the  while,  the  more  he  dwelt 
upon  the  bitter  incidents  of  that  one  hundred  and 
thirty  miles  of  harsh  coast,  through  the  thirty-seven 
years  he  had  managed  to  survive  the  winds  and 
seas  and  frosts  of  it;  and  the  more  he  dwelt  upon 
his  straitened  circumstances  and  increasing  age  the 
more  petulant  he  grew. 

It  was  in  such  moods  as  this  that  Doctor  Rolfe 
was  accustomed  to  recall  the  professional  services 
he  had  rendered  and  to  dispatch  bills  therefor ;  and 
now  he  fumbled  through  the  litter  of  his  old  desk 
for  pen  and  ink,  drew  a  dusty,  yellowing  sheaf  of 
statements  of  accounts  from  a  dusty  pigeonhole,  and 
set  himself  to  work,  fuming  and  grumbling  all  the 
while.  "I'll  tilt  the  fee !"  he  determined.  This  was 
to  be  the  new  policy — to  "tilt  the  fee,"  to  demand 
payment,  to  go  with  caution ;  in  this  way  to  provide 
for  an  old  age  of  reasonable  ease  and  self-respecting 
independence.  And  Doctor  Rolfe  began  to  make 
out  statements  of  accounts  due  for  services  rendered. 


From  this  labor  and  petulant  reflection  Doctor 
Rolfe  was  withdrawn  by  a  tap  on  the  surgery  door. 
He  called  "Come  in !"  with  no  heart  for  the  event. 
It  was  no  night  to  be  abroad  on  the  ice.  Yet  the 
tap  could  mean  but  one  thing — somebody  was  in 


120 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


I' 


trouble;  and  as  he  caUed  "Come  in!"  and  looked  up 
from  the  statement  of  account,  and  while  he  waited 
for  the  door  to  open,  his  pen  poised  and  his  face  in 
a  pucker  of  trouble,  he  considered  the  night  and 
wondered  what  strength  was  left  in  his  lean  old  legs. 

A  youngster— he  had  been  dripping  wet  and  w?s 
now  sparkling  all  over  with  frost  and  ice— intruded. 

"Thank-the-Lord  Cove?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Mad  Harry?" 

"Ragged  Run,  sir." 

"Bad- Weather  West's  lad?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Been  in  the  water?" 

The  boy  grinned.  He  was  ashamed  of  himself. 
"Yes,  sir.    I  failed  through  the  ice,  sir." 

"Come  across  the  Bight?" 

The  boy  stared.  "No,  sir.  A  cat  couldn't  cross 
the  Bight  the  night,  sir.  'Tis  all  rotten.  I  come 
alongshore  by  Mad  Harry  an'  Thank-the-Lord.  I 
dropped  through  all  of  a  sudden,  sir,  in  Thank-the- 
Lord  Cove." 

"Who's  sick?" 

"Pop's  gun  went  off,  sir." 

Doctor  Rolfe  rose.  " 'Pop's  gun  went  off  1'  Who 
was  in  the  way?" 

"Dolly,  sir." 

"And  Dolly  in  the  way!    And  Dolly " 

"She've  gone  blind,  sir.  An'  her  cheek,  sir— an' 
one  ear,  sir " 


The  Doctor  of  Afternoon  Arm       121 


There's  a  scud.     Am'  the 


"What's  the  night?" 

"Blowin'  up,   sir. 
moon " 

"You  didn't  cross  the  Bight?    Why  not?" 

"  'Tis  rotten  from  shore  t'  shore.  I'd  not  try, 
the  Bight,  sir,  the  night." 

"No?" 

"No,  sir."    The  boy  was  very  grave. 

"Mm-m." 

All  this  while  Doctor  Rolfe  had  been  moving 
about  the  surgery  in  sure  haste — packing  a  water- 
proof case  with  little  instruments  and  vials  and 
what  not.  And  now  he  got  quickly  into  his  boots 
and  jacket,  pulled  down  his  coonskin  cap,  pulled 
up  his  sealskin  gloves,  handed  Bad-Weather  West's 
boy  over  to  his  housekeeper  for  supper  and  bed  (he 
was  a  bachelor  man),  and  closed  the  surgery  door 
upon  himself. 


Doctor  Rolfe  took  to  the  harbor  ice  and  drove 
head  down  into  the  gale.  There  were  ten  miles 
to  go.  It  was  to  be  a  night's  work.  He  settled 
himself  doggedly.  It  was  heroic.  In  the  circum- 
stances, however,  this  aspect  of  the  night's  work 
was  not  stimulating  to  a  tired  old  man.  It  was  a 
mile  and  a  half  to  Creek  Head,  where  Afternoon 
Tickle  led  a  narrow  way  from  the  shelter  of  After- 
noon Arm  to  Anxious  Bight  and  the  open  sea ;  and 
from  the  lee  of  Creep  Head — a  straightaway  across 
Anxious  Bight — it  was  nine  miles  to  Blow-me- 


122  Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

Down  Dick  of  Ragged  Run  Harbor.    And  Doctor 
Rolfe  had  rested  but  three  hours.    And  he  was  old. 
Impatient  to  revive  the  accustomed  comfort  and 
glow  of  strength  he  began  to  run.    When  he  came 
to  Creep  Head  and  there  paused  to  survey  Anxious 
Bight  in  a  flash  of  tlie  moon,  he  was  tingling  and 
war.T!  and  limber  and  eager.    Yet  he  was  dismayed 
by  the  prospect.    No  man  could  cross  from  Creep 
Head   to   Blow-me-Down   Dick   of   Ragged   Run 
Harbor  in  the  dark.    Doctor  Rolfe  considered  the 
Ufeht.      Communicating  masses   of   ragged   cloud 
were  driving  low  across  Anxious  Bight.    Offshpre 
there  was  a  sluggish  bank  of  black  cloud.     The 
moon  was  risen  and  full.    It  was  obscured.    The 
intervals  of  light  were  less  than  the  intervals  of 
shadow.    Sometimes  a  wide,  impenetrable  cloud,  its 
edges  alight,  darkened  the  moon  altogether.    Still, 
there  was  light  enough.     All  that  was  definitely 
ominous  was  the  bank  of  black  cloud  lying  slug- 
gishly offshore.     The  longer  Doctor  Rolfe  con- 
templated its  potentiahty  for  catastrophe  the  more  he 
feared  it. 
"If  I  were  to  be  overtaken  by  snow  I" 

It  was  blowing  high.  There  was  the  bite  and 
shiver  of  frost  in  the  wind.  Half  a  gale  ran  in  from 
the  open  sea.  Midway  of  Anxious  Bight  it  would  be 
a  saucy,  hampering,  stinging  head  ".'ind.  And  be- 
yond Creep  Head  the  ice  was  in  doubtful  condition. 
A  man  might  conjecture;  that  was  all.     It  was 


The  Doctor  of  Afternoon  Arm        133 


mid-spring.  Freezing  weather  had  of  late  alternated 
with  periods  of  thaw  and  rain.  There  had  been 
windy  days.  Anxious  Bight  had  even  once  been 
clear  of  ice.  A  westerly  wind  had  broken  the  ice 
and  swept  it  out  beyond  the  heads.  In  a  gale  from 
the  northeast,  however,  these  fragments  had  re- 
turned with  accumulations  '^f  Arctic  pans  and  hum- 
mocks from  the  Labrador  current;  and  a  frostj 
night  had  caught  them  together  and  sealed  them 
to  the  clifiFs  of  the  coast.  It  was  a  most  delicate 
attachment— one  pan  to  the  other  and  the  whole  to 
the  rocks.  It  had  yielded  somewhat — it  must  have 
gone  rotten — in  the  weather  of  that  day.  What  the 
frost  had  accomplished  since  dusk  could  be  deter- 
mined only  upon  trial. 

"Soft  as  cheese !"  Doctor  Rolfe  concluded.  "Rub- 
ber ice  and  air  holes !" 

There  was  another  way  to  Ragged  Run — the  way 
by  which  Terry  West  had  come.  It  skirted  the 
shore  of  Anxious  Bight — Mad  Harry  and  Thank- 
the-Lord  and  Little  Harbor  Deep — and  something 
more  than  multiplied  the  distance  by  one  and  a  half. 
Doctor  Rolfe  was  completely  aware  of  the  diffi- 
culties of  Anxious  Bight — the  wa;  fro-n  Afternoon 
Arm  to  Ragged  Run;  the  treacherous  reaches  of 
young  ice,  bending  under  the  weight  of  a  man ;  the 
veiled  black  water;  the  labor,  the  crevices,  the  snow 
crust  of  the  Arctic  pans  and  hummocks;  and  the 
broken  field  and  wash  of  the  sea  beyond  the  ksser 
island  of  the  Spotted  Horses.    And  he  '.mew,  too. 


184  Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

the  issue  of  the  disappearance  of  the  moon,  the 
desperate  plight  into  which  the  sluggish  bank  of 
black  cloud  might  plunge  a  man.  As  a  matter  of 
unromantic  fact  he  desired  greatiy  to  dechnc  a  pas- 
sage of  Anxious  Bight  that  night. 

Instead  he  moved  out  and  shaped  a  course  for 
the  black  bulk  of  the  Spotted  Horses.  This  was  in 
the  direction  of  Blow-me-Down  Dick  of  Ragged 
Run,  and  the  open  sea. 

He  sighed.    "If  I  had  a  son he  reflected. 

Well,  now.  Doctor  Rolfe  was  a  Newfoundlander. 
He  was  used  to  traveling  all  sorts  of  ice  in  aU  sorts 
of  weather.    The  returning  fragments  of  the  >ce 
of  Anxious  Bight  had  been  close  packed  for  two 
miles  beyond  the  narrows  of  Afternoon  Arm  by 
the  northeast  gale  which  had  driven  them  back  from 
the  open.    This  was  rough  ice.    In  the  press  of  the 
wind  the  drifting  floe  had  buckled.    It  had  been  a 
bie  gale.    Under  the  whip  of  it  the  ice  had  come 
down  with  a  rush.    And  when  it  encountered  the 
coast  the  first  great  pans  had  been  thrust  out  of 
the  sea  by  the  weight  of  the  floe  behmd.    A  slow 
pressure  had  even  driven  them  up  the  cliffs  of  Creep 
Head  and  heaped  them  in  a  tumble  below.    It  was 
thus  a  folded,  crumpled  floe,  a  vast  field  of  broken 
bergs  and  pans  at  angles. 

No  Newfoundlander  would  adventure  on  the  ice 
without  a  gaff.  A  gaff  is  a  lithe,  ironshod  pole, 
eight  or  ten  feet  in  length.    Doctor  Rolfe  was  as 


The  Doctor  of  Afternoon  Ann       125 

ctinning  and  sure  with  a  gaff  as  any  old  hand  of 
the  sealing  fleet.  He  employed  it  now  to  advantage. 
It  was  a  vaulting  pole.  He  walked  less  than  he 
leaped.  This  was  no  work  for  the  half  light  of 
an  obscured  moon.  Sometimes  he  halted  for  light; 
but  delay  annoyed  him.  A  pause  of  ten  minutes- 
he  squatted  for  rest  meantime— threw  him  into  a 
state  of  incautious  irritability.  At  this  rate  it  would 
be  past  dawn  before  he  made  the  cottages  of  Ragged 
Run  Harbor. 

Impatient  of  precaution,  he  presently  chanced  a 
leap.  It  was  error.  As  the  meager  light  disclosed 
the  path  a  chasm  of  fifteen  feet  intervened  between 
the  edge  of  the  upturned  pan  upon  which  he  stood 
and  a  flat-topped  hummock  of  Arctic  ice  to  which 
he  was  bound.  There  was  footing  for  the  tip  of 
his  gaff  midway  below.  He  felt  for  this  foot- 
ing to  entertain  himself  while  the  moon  delayed. 
It  was  there.  He  was  tempted.  The  chasm 
was  critically  deep  for  the  length  of  the  gaff. 
Worse  than  that,  the  hummock  was  higher  than 
the  pan.  Doctor  Rolfe  peered  across.  It  was  not 
much  higher.  It  would  merely  be  necessary  to  lift 
stoutly  at  the  climax  of  the  leap.  And  there  was 
need  of  haste — a  little  maid  in  hard  case  at  Ragged 
Run  and  a  rising  cloud  threatening  black  weather. 
A  slow  cloud  covered  the  moon.  It  was  aggravat- 
ing.   There  would  be  no  light  for  a  long  time.    A 

man  must  take  a  chance .    And  all  at  once  the 

old  man  gave  way  to  impatience;  he  gripped  his 


126  Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

gaff  with  angry  determination  and  projected  him- 
self toward  the  hummock  of  Arctic  ice.  A  flash 
later  he  had  regretted  the  hazard.  He  perceived 
that  he  had  misjudged  the  height  of  the  hummock. 
Had  the  gaff  been  a  foot  longer  he  would  have 
cleared  the  chasm.  It  occurred  to  him  that  he 
would  break  his  back  and  merit  the  fate  of  his 
callow  mistake.  Then  his  toes  caught  the  edge  of 
the  flat-topped  hummock.  His  boots  were  of  soft 
seal  leather.  He  gripped  the  ice.  And  now  he 
hung  suspended  and  inert.  The  slender  gaff  bent 
under  the  prolonged  strain  of  his  weight  and  shook 
in  response  to  a  shiver  of  his  arms.  Courage  failed 
a  little.  Doctor  Rolfe  was  an  old  man.  And  he 
was  tired.    And  he  felt  unequal 

Dolly  West's  mother— with  Dolly  in  her  arms, 
resting  against  her  soft,  ample  bosom-sat  by  the 
kitchen  fire.  It  was  long  after  dark.  The  wmd 
was  up;  the  cottage  shook  in  the  squalls.  She  had 
long  ago  washed  Dolly's  eyes  and  temporarily 
stanched  the  terrifying  flow  of  blood;  and  now  she 
waited,  rocking  gently  and  sometimes  crooning  a 
plaintive  song  of  the  coast  to  the  restless  child. 

Tom  West  came  in. 

"Hush!" 

"Is  she  sleepin'  still?" 

"Off  an'  on.  She's  in  a  deal  o'  pain.  She  cnes 
out,  poor  lamb!"  Dolly  stirred  and  whimpered. 
"Any  sign  of  un,  Tom?" 


if 


The  Doctor  of  Afternoon  Arm       127 


"  'Tis  not  time." 

"He  might " 

"  'Twill  be  hours  afore  he  comes.  I'm  jus'  won- 
derin' " 

"Hush!"    Dolly  moaned    "Ay,  Tom?" 

"Terry's  but  a  wee  feller.  I'm  wonderin'  if 
he " 

The  woman  was  confident  "He'll  make  it,"  she 
whispered. 

"Ay;  but  if  he's  delayed " 

"He  was  there  afore  dusk.  An'  the  doctor  got 
underway  across  the  Bight " 

"He'll  not  come  by  the  Bight!" 

"He'll  come  by  the  Bight  I  knows  that  man. 
He'U  come  by  the  Bight— an*  he'll " 

"If  he  comes  by  the  Bight  he'll  never  get  here 
at  all.  Th.'  Bight's  breakin'  up.  There's  rotten  ice 
beyond  the  Spotted  Horses.     An'  Tickle-my-Ribs 

"He'll  come.    He'll  be  here  afore " 

"There's  a  gale  o'  snow  comin'  down.  'Twill 
cloud  the  moon.    A  man  would  lose  hisself " 

"He'll  come." 

Bad-Weather  Tom  West  went  out  againr— to  plod 
once  more  down  the  narrows  to  the  base  of  Blow- 
me-Down  Dick  and  search  the  vague  light  of  the 
coast  for  the  first  sight  of  Doctor  Rolfe.  It  was 
not  time;  he  knew  that.  There  would  be  hours  of 
waiting.  It  would  be  dawn  before  a  man  could  come 
by  Thank-the-Lord  and  Mad  Harry,  if  he  left 


188 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


Afternoon  Arm  even  so  early  as  dusk.  And  as 
for  crossing  the  Bight — no  man  could  cross  the 
Bight.  It  was  blowing  up  too— clouds  rising  and 
a  threat  of  snow  abroad.  Bad-weather  Tom  glanced 
apprehensively  toward  the  northeast.  It  would 
snow  before  dawn.  The  moon  was  doomed.  A 
dark  night  would  fall.  And  the  Bight — Doctor 
Rolfe  would  never  attempt  to  cross  the  Bight 


Hanging  between  the  hummock  and  the  pan,  the 
gaf{  shivering  tmder  his  weight.  Doctor  Rolfe 
slowly  subsided  toward  the  hummock.  A  toe 
slipped.  He  paused.  It  was  a  grim  business.  The 
other  foot  held.  The  leg,  too,  was  equal  to  the 
strain.  He  wriggled  his  toe  back  to  its  grip  on 
the  edge  of  the  ice.  It  was  an  improved  foothold. 
He  turned  then  and  began  to  lift  and  thrust  himself 
backward.  A  last  thrust  on  the  gaff  set  him  on  his 
haunches  on  the  Arctic  hummock,  and  he  thanked 
Providence  and  went  on.  And  on — and  on !  There 
was  a  deal  of  slippery  crawling  to  do,  of  slow, 
ticklish  climbing.  Doctor  Rolfe  rounded  bergs, 
scaled  perilous  inclines,  leaped  crevices. 

It  was  cold  as  death  now.  Was  it  ten  below? 
The  gale  bit  like  twenty  below. 

When  the  big  northeast  wind  drove  the  ice  back 
into  Anxious  Bight  and  heaped  it  inshore,  the  pres- 
sure had  decreased  as  the  mass  of  the  floe  dimin- 
ished in  the  direction  of  the  sea.  The  outermost  areas 
had  not  felt  the  impact.    They  had  not  folded — 


The  Doctor  of  Afternoon  Arm        129 

had  not  "raftered."  When  the  wind  failed  they 
had  subsided  toward  the  open.  As  they  say  on  the 
coast,  the  ice  had  "gone  abroad."  It  was  distributed. 
And  after  that  the  sea  had  fallen  flat ;  and  a  vicious 
frost  had  caught  the  floe — widespread  now — and 
frozen  it  fast.  It  was  six  miles  from  the  edge  of 
the  raftered  ice  to  the  first  island  of  the  Spotted 
Horses.  The  flat  pans  were  solid  enough,  safe  and 
easy  going ;  but  this  new,  connecting  ice — the  lanes 
and  reaches  of  it 

Doctor  Rolfe's  succinct  characterization  of  the 
condition  of  Anxious  Bight  was  also  keen:  "Soft 
as  cheese!" 

All  that  day  the  sun  had  fallen  hot  on  the  young 
ice  in  which  the  scattered  pans  of  the  floe  were 
frozen.  Some  of  the  wider  patches  of  green  ice 
had  been  weakened  to  the  breaking  point.  Here 
and  there  they  must  have  been  eaten  clear  through. 
Doctor  Rolfe  contemplated  an  advance  with  dis- 
taste. And  by  and  by  the  first  brief  barrier  of  new 
ice  confronted  him.  He  must  cross  it.  A  black 
film — the  color  of  water  in  that  light — ^bridged  the 
way  from  one  pan  to  another.  He  would  not  touch 
it.  He  leaped  it  easily.  A  few  fathoms  forward  a 
second  space  halted  him.    Must  he  put  foot  on  it? 

With  a  running  start  he  could Well,  he  chose 

not  to  touch  the  second  space,  but  to  leap  it. 

Soon  a  third  interval  stopped  him.  No  man 
could  leap  it.  He  cast  about  for  another  way. 
There  was  none.    He  must  run  across.    He  scowled. 


180 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


Disinclination  increased.  He  snarled:  "Green  ice!" 
He  crossed  then  like  a  cat— on  tiptoe  and  swiftly; 
and  he  came  to  the  other  side  with  his  heart  in  a 
flutter.    "Whew!" 

The  ice  had  yielded  without  breaking.  It  had 
creaked,  perhaps;  nothing  worse.  It  was  what  is 
called  "rubber  ice."  There  was  more  of  it;  there 
were  miles  of  it  The  nearer  the  open  sea  the  more 
widespread  was  the  floe.  Beyond — hauling  down 
the  Spotted  Horses,  which  lay  in  the  open — ^the 
proportion  of  new  ice  would  be  vastly  greater.  At 
a  trot  for  the  time  over  the  pans,  which  were  flat, 
and  in  delicate,  mincing  little  spurts  across  the  bend- 
ing ice,  Doctor  Rolfe  proceeded.  In  a  confidence 
that  was  somewhat  flushed — ^he  had  rested — he  went 
forward 

And  presently,  midway  of  a  lane  of  green  ice,  he 
heard  a  gurgle  as  the  ice  bent  under  his  weight. 
.Water  washed  his  boots.  He  had  be-.i  on  the  look- 
out for  holes.  This  hole  he  heard — ^the  spurt  and 
gurgle  of  it  He  had  not  seen  it  Safe  across. 
Doctor  Rolfe  grinned.  It  was  a  reaction  of  relief. 
"Whew!    Whew!"  he  whisUed. 


By  and  by  he  caught  ear  of  the  sea  breaking  under 
the  wind  Iieyond  the  Little  Spotted  Horse.  He  was 
Hearing  the  limits  of  the  ice.  In  full  moonlight 
the  whitecaps  flashed  news  of  a  tumultuous  opea 
A  nimble  and  splash  of  breakers  came  down  with 
the  gale  from  the  point  of  the  island.    It  indicated 


The  Doctor  of  Afternoon  Arm        131 

that  the  sea  was  working  in  the  passage  between 
the  Spotted  Horses  and  Blow-me-down  Dick  of  the 
Ragged  Run  coast  The  waves  would  run  under 
the  ice,  would  lift  it  and  break  it  In  this  way  the 
sea  would  eat  its  way  through  the  passage.  It  would 
destroy  the  young  ice.  It  would  break  the  pans 
to  pieces  and  rub  them  to  slush. 

Doctor  Rolfe  must  make  the  Little  Spotted  Horse 
and  cross  the  passage  between  the  island  and  the 
Ragged  Run  coast  Whatever  the  issue  of  haste, 
he  must  carry  on  and  make  the  best  of  a  bad  job. 
Otherwise  he  would  come  to  Tickle-my-Ribs,  be- 
tween the  Little  Spotted  Horse  and  Blow-me-Down 
Dick  of  Ragged  Run,  and  be  marooned  from  the 
main  shore.  And  there  was  another  reason:  it  was 
immediate  and  desperately  urgent.  As  the  sea  was 
biting  off  the  ice  in  Tickle-my-Ribs,  so,  too,  it  was 
encroaching  upon  the  body  of  the  ice  in  Anxious 
Bight  Anxious  Bight  was  breaking  up.  Acres 
of  ice  were  wrenched  from  the  field  at  a  time  and 
then  broken  up  by  the  sea.  What  was  the  direction 
of  this  swift  melting?  It  might  take  any  direction. 
And  a  survey  of  the  sky  troubled  Doctor  Rolfe. 
All  this  while  the  light  had  diminished.  It  was 
failing  still.  It  was  failing  faster.  There  was  less 
of  the  moon.  By  and  by  it  would  be  wholly  ob- 
scured. 

A  man  would  surely  lose  his  life  on  the  ice  in 
thick  weather — on  one  or  other  of  the  reaches  of 
new  ice.    And  thereabouts  the  areas  of  young  ice 


132 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


1 1 


>i, 


were  wider.  To  tiptoe  across  the  yielding  film  of 
these  dimly  visible  stretches  was  instantly  and  dread- 
fully dangerous.  It  was  horrifying.  A  man  took 
his  life  in  his  hand  every  time  he  left  a  pan.  Doctor 
Rolfe  was  not  insensitive.  He  began  to  sweat — not 
with  labor  but  with  fear.  When  the  ice  bent  under 
him  he  gasped  and  held  his  breath ;  and  he  came  each 
time  to  the  solid  refuge  of  a  pan  with  his  teeth 
set,  his  face  contorted,  his  hands  clenched — Sl  shiver 
in  the  small  of  his  back. 

To  achieve  safety  once,  however,  was  not  to  win 
a  final  relief ;  it  was  merely  to  confront,  in  the  same 
circumstances,  a  precisely  similar  peril.  Doctor 
Rolfe  was  not  physically  exhausted;  every  muscle 
that  he  had  was  warm  and  alert.  Yet  he  was  weak ; 
a  repetition  of  suspense  had  unnerved  him.  A  full 
hour  of  this,  and  sometimes  he  chattered  and  shook 
in  a  nervous  chill.  In  the  meantime  he  had  ap- 
proached the  rocks  of  the  Little  Spotted  Horse. 

In  the  lee  of  the  Little  Spotted  Horse  the  ice  had 
gathered  as  in  a  back  current  It  was  close  packed 
alongshore  to  the  point  of  the  island.  Between  this 
solidly  frozen  press  of  pans  and  the  dissolving  field 
in  Anxious  Bight  there  had  been  a  lane  of  ruffled 
open  water  before  the  frost  fell.  It  measured  per- 
haps fifty  yards.  It  was  now  black  and  still,  sheeted 
with  new  ice  which  had  been  delayed  in  forming 
by  the  ripple  of  that  exposed  situation.  Doctor 
Rolfe  had  encountered  nothing  as  doubtful.  Fs 
paused  on  the  brink.     A  long,  thin  line  of  solid 


The  Doctor  of  Afternoon  Ann       138 

pan  ice,  ghosUy  white  in  the  dusk  beyond,  was 
attached  to  the  rocks  of  the  Little  Spotted  Horse. 
It  led  all  the  way  to  Tickle-my-Ribs.  Doctor  Rolfe 
must  make  that  line  of  solid  ice.  He  must  cross  the 
wide  lane  of  black,  delicately  frozen  new  ice  that 
lay  between  and  barred  his  way. 

He  waited  for  the  moon.    When  the  light  broke 
—a   thin,   transient  gleam— he   started.     A    few 
fathoms  forth  the  ice  began  to  yield.    A  moment 
later  he  stopped  short  and  recoiled.    There  was  a 
hole— gaping  wide  and  almost  under  his  feet.    He 
stopped.    The  water  overflowed  and  the  ice  era  '<ed. 
He  must  not  stand  still.     To  avoid  a  second  hole 
he  twisted  violently  to  the  right  and  almost  plunged 
mto  a  third  opening.    It  seemed  the  ice  was  rotten 
from  shore  to  shore.    And  it  was  a  long  way  across. 
Doctor  Rolfe  danced  a  zigzag  toward  the  pan  ice 
under  the  cliffs,  spurting  forward  and  retreating  and 
swerving.     He  did  not  pause;  had  he  paused  he 
would  have  dropped  through.    When  he  was  within 
two  fathoms  of  the  pan  ice  a  foot  broke  through 
and  tripped  him  flat  on  his  face.    With  his  weight 
thus  distributed  he  was  momentarily  held  up.    Water 
squirted  and  gurgled  out  of  the  break— an  inch  of 
water,  forming  a  pool.    Doctor  Rolfe  lay  stUl  and 
expectant  in  this  pool. 

Dolly  West's  mother  still  sat  by  the  kitchen  fire. 
It  was  long  past  midnight  now. 
Once  more  Bad-Weather  Tom  tiptoed  in  from 


134 


Harbor  Tales"  Down  North 


the  frosty  nigjit.  "Is  she  sleepin'  still?"  he  whis- 
pered. 

"Hush!  She've  jus'  toppled  oflF  again.  She's 
havin'  a  deal  o'  pain,  Tom.  An'  she've  been  bleedin' 
again." 

"Put  her  down  on  the  bed,  dear." 

The  woman  shook  her  head.  "I'm  afeared 
'twould  start  the  wounds,  Tom.  Any  sign  of  un 
yet,  Tom?" 

"Not  yet." 

"He'll  come  soon." 

"No;  'tis  not  near  time.  'Twill  be  dawn  afore 
he '= 

"So  n,  Tom." 

"He'll  be  delayed  by  snow.  The  moon's  near 
gone.  'Twill  be  black  dark  in  half  an  hour.  I  felt 
a  flake  o'  snow  as  I  come  in.  An'  he'll  maybe  wait 
at  Mad  Harry " 

"He's  comin  'by  the  Bight,  Tom." 

Dolly  stirred,  cried  out,  awakened  with  a  start, 
and  lifted  her  bandaged  head  a  little.  She  did  not 
open  her  eyes.    "Is  that  you,  doctor,  sir?" 

"Hush!"  the  mother  whispered.  "'Tis  not  the 
doctor  yet." 

"When " 

"He's  comin'." 

"I'll  take  a  look,"  said  Tom.  He  went  out  again 
and  stumbled  down  the  path  to  Blow-me-Down  Dick 
by  Tickle-my-Ribs. 


The  Doctor  of  Afternoon  Arm        135 

Doctor  Rolfe  lay  still  and  expectant  in  the  pool 
of  water  near  the  pan  ice  and  rocks  of  the  Little 
Spotted  Horse.  He  waited.  Nothing  happened. 
Presently  he  ventured  delicately  to  take  off  a  mitten, 
to  extend  his  hand,  to  sink  his  fingemails  in  the  ice 
and  try  to  draw  himself  forward.  It  was  a  failure. 
His  fingemails  were  too  short.  He  could  merely 
scratch  the  ice.  He  reflected  that  if  he  did  not  con- 
centrate his  weight— that  if  he  kept  it  distributed 
— ^he  would  not  break  through.  And  once  more  he 
tried  to  maKe  use  of  his  fingemails.  It  tumed  out 
that  the  nails  oi  the  other  hand  were  longer.  Doctor 
Rolfe  managed  to  gain  half  an  inch  before  they 
slipped.  They  slipped  again— and  again  and  again. 
It  was  hopeless.    Doctor  Rolfe  lay  still,  pondering. 

Presently  he  shot  his  gaflf  toward  the  pan  ice,  to 
be  rid  of  the  incumbrance  of  it,  and  lifted  himself 
on  his  palms  and  toes.  By  this  the  distribution  of 
his  weight  was  not  greatly  disturbed.  It  was  not 
concentrated  upon  one  point  It  was  divided  by 
four  and  laid  upon  four  points.  And  there  were 
no  fearsome  consequences.  It  was  a  hopeful  ex- 
periment. 

Doctor  Rolfe  stepped  by  inches  on  his  hands  to- 
ward the  pan  ice — dragging  his  toes.  In  this  way 
he  came  to  the  line  of  solid  ice  tmder  the  cliffs  of 
the  Little  Spotted  Horse  and  had  a  clear  path  for- 
ward. Whereupon  he  picked  up  his  gaff,  and  set 
out  for  the  point  of  the  Little  Spotted  Horse  and 
the  passage  of  Tickle-my-Ribs.    He  was  heartened. 


1S6 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


V    t 


Tickle-my-Ribs  was  heaving.  The  sea  had  by 
this  time  eaten  its  way  clear  through  the  passage 
from  the  open  to  the  first  reaches  of  Anxious  Bight 
and  far  and  wide  beyond.  The  channel  was  half 
a  mile  long;  in  width  a  quarter  of  a  mile  at  the 
narrowest.  Doctor  Rolfe's  path  was  determined.  It 
must  lead  from  the  point  of  the  island  to  the  base 
of  Blow-me-Down  Dick  and  the  adjoining  fixed  and 
solid  ice  of  the  narrows  to  Ragged  Run  Harbor. 
Ice  choked  the  channel  It  was  continuously  run- 
ning in  from  the  open.  It  was  a  thin  sheet  of  frag- 
ments. There  was  only  an  occasional  considerable 
pan.  A  high  sea  ran  outside.  Waves  from  the  open 
slipped  under  this  field  of  little  pieces  and  lifted  it 
in  running  swells.  No  single  block  of  ice  was  at 
rest. 

Precisely  as  a  country  doctor  might  petulantly 
regard  a  stretch  of  hub-deep  crossroad,  Doctor 
Rolfe,  the  outport  physician,  complained  of  the  pas- 
sage of  Tickle-my-Ribs.  Not  many  of  the  little  pans 
would  bear  his  weight.  They  would  sustain  it  mo- 
mentarily. Then  they  would  tip  or  sink.  There 
would  be  foothold  through  the  instant  required  to 
choose  another  foothold  and  leap  toward  it.  Always 
the  leap  would  have  to  be  taken  from  sinking 
ground.  When  he  came,  by  good  chance,  to  a  pan 
that  would  bear  him  up  for  a  moment,  Doctor  Rolfe 
would  have  instantly  to  discover  another  heavy  block 
to  which  to  shape  his  agitated  course.    There  would 


The  Doctor  of  Afternoon  Ann       137 

be  no  rest,  no  certainty  beyond  the  impending  mo- 
ment But,  leaping  thus,  alert  and  -gile  and  daring, 
a  man  might 

Might?  Mm-m,  a  man  might!  And  he  might 
not!  There  were  contingencies:  A  man  might  leap 
short  and  find  black  water  where  he  had  depended 
upon  a  footing  of  ice ;  a  man  mig^t  land  on  the  edge 
of  a  pan  and  fall  slowly  back  for  sheer  lack  of 
power  to  obtain  a  balance;  a  man  might  misjudge 
the  strength  of  a  pan  to  bear  him  up;  a  man  might 
find  no  ice  near  enough  for  the  next  immediately 
imperative  leap;  a  man  might  be  unable  either  to 
go  forward  or  retreat.  And  there  was  the  light  to 
consider.  A  man  might  be  caught  in  the  dark.  He 
would  be  in  hopeless  case  if  caught  in  the  dark. 

Light  was  imperative.  Doctor  Rolfe  glanced 
aloft.    "Whew!"  he  whistled. 

The  moon  and  the  ominous  bank  of  black  cloud 
were  very  close.  There  was  snow  in  the  air.  A 
thickening  flurry  ran  past. 

Bad-Weather  Tom  West  was  not  on  the  lookout 
when  Doctor  Rolfe  opened  the  kitchen  door  at 
Ragged  Run  Harbor  and  strode  in  with  the  air  of 
a  man  who  had  survived  difficulties  and  was  proud 
of  it.  Bad-weather  Tom  West  was  sitting  by  the 
fire,  his  face  in  his  hands;  and  the  mother  of  Dolly 
West — with  Dolly  still  restlessly  asleep  in  her  arms 
— ^was  rocking,  rocking,  as  before. 

And  Doctor  Rolfe  set  to  work — in  a  way  so 


188 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


« 


gentle,  with  a  voice  so  persuasive,  with  a  hand  so 
tender  and  sure,  with  a  skill  and  wisdom  so  keen, 
that  little  Dolly  West,  who  was  brave  enough  in  any 
case,  as  you  know,  yielded  the  additional  patience 
and  courage  which  the  simple  means  at  hand  for  her 
relief  required ;  and  Doctor  Rolf  e  laved  Dolly  West's 
blue  eyes  until  she  could  see  again,  and  sewed  up  her 
wounds  that  night  50  that  no  scar  remained;  and 
m  the  broad  light  of  the  next  day  picked  out  grains 
of  powder  until  not  a  single  grain  was  left  to  dis- 
figure the  child. 

Three  months  after  that  it  again  occurred  to 
Doctor  Rolfe,  of  Afternoon  Arm,  that  the  practice 
of  medicine  was  amply  provided  with  hardship  and 
shockingly  empty  of  pecuniary  reward.  Since  the 
night  of  the  passage  of  Anxious  Bight  he  had  not 
found  time  to  send  out  any  statements  of  accounts. 
It  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  then  determined, 
after  a  reasonable  and  sufficient  consideration  of  the 
whole  matter,  to  "tilt  the  fee."  Very  well ;  he  would 
"tilt  the  fee."  He  would  provide  for  himself  an 
old  age  of  reasonable  ease  and  self-respecting  inde- 
pendence. 

Thereupon  Doctor  Rolfe  prepared  a  statement  of 
account  for  Bad-Weather  West,  of  Ragged  Run 
Harbor,  and  after  he  had  written  the  amount  of 
the  bill— "$4"— h;  thoughtfully  crossed  it  out  and 
wrote  "$1.75-" 


A  CRCESUS  OF  GINGERBREAD 
COVE 


A  CRCESUS  OF  GINGERBREAD  COVE 


MY  name's  Race.  I've  traded  these  here  New- 
foundland north-coast  outports  for  salt-fish 
for  half  a  lifetime.  Boy  and  youth  afore 
that  I  served  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter  in  his  shop  at 
Gingerbread  Cove.  I  was  bom  in  the  Cove.  I 
knowed  all  the  tricks  of  Pinch-a-Penny's  trade. 
And  I  tells  you  it  was  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter's  con- 
science that  made  Pinch-a-Penny  rich.  That's  queer 
two  ways :  you  wouldn't  expect  a  north-coast  trader 
to  have  a  conscience;  and  you  wouldn't  expect  a 
north-coast  trader  with  a  conscience  to  be  rich.  But 
conscience  is  much  like  the  wind:  it  blows  every 
which  way;  and  if  a  man  does  but  trim  his  sails 
to  suit,  he  can  bowl  along  in  any  direction  without 
much  wear  and  tear  of  the  spirit  Pinch-a-Penny 
bowled  along,  paddle-punt  fisherman  to  Ginger- 
bread merchant  He  went  where  he  was  bound  for, 
wing-and-wing  to  the  breeze  behind,  and  got  there 
with  his  peace  of  mind  showing  never  a  sign  of 
the  weather.  In  my  day  the  old  codger  had  an 
easy  conscience  and  twenty  thousand  dollars. 
Long  Tom  Lane,  of  Gingerbread  Cove,  vowed  in 

141 


148 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


his  prime  that  he'd  sure  have  to  even  scores  with 
Pinch-a-Penny  Peter  afore  he  could  pass  to  his  last 
harbor  with  any  satisfaction. 

"With  me,  Tom?"  says  Pinch-a-Penny.  "That's 
a  saucy  notion  for  a  hook-an'-line  man." 

"Ten  more  years  o'  life,"  says  Tom,  "an'  I'll 
square  scores." 

"Afore  you  evens  scores  with  me,  Tom,"  says 
Peter,  "you'll  have  t'  have  what  I  wants  an'  can't 
get." 

"There's  times,"  says  Tom,  "when  a  man  stands 
in  sore  need  o'  what  he  never  thought  he'd  want." 

"When  you  haves  what  I  needs,"  says  Peter,  "I'll 
pay  what  you  asks." 

"If  'tis  for  sale,"  says  Tom. 

"Money  talks,"  says  Peter. 

"Ah,  well,"  says  Tom,  "maybe  it  don't  speak  my 
language." 

Pinch-a-Penny  Peter's  conscience  was  just  as  busy 
as  any  other  man's  conscience.  And  it  liked  its  job. 
It  troubled  Pinch-a-Penny.  It  didn't  trouble  un  to 
be  honest;  it  troubled  un  to  be  rich.  And  it  give 
un  no  rest.  When  trade  was  dull — no  fish  coming 
into  Pinch-a-Penny's  storehouses  and  no  goods  go- 
ing out  of  Pinch-a-Penny's  shop — Pinch-a-Penny's 
conscience  made  un  grumble  and  groan  like  the 
damned.  I  never  seed  a  man  so  tortured  by  con- 
science afore  nor  since.  And  to  ease  his  conscience 
Pinch-a-Penny  would  go  over  his  ledgers  by  night; 
and  he'd  jot  down  a  gallon  of  molasses  here,  and 


A  CrcEsiu  of  Gbgerbread  Cove       143 

a  pound  of  tea  there,  until  he  had  made  a  good 
day's  trade  of  a  bad  one.  'Twas  simple  enough, 
too;  for  Pinch-a-Penny  never  gived  out  no  accounts 
to  amount  to  nothing,  but  just  struck  his  balances 
to  please  his  greed  at  the  end  of  the  season,  and 
told  his  dealers  how  much  they  owed  him  or  how 
little  he  owed  them. 

In  dull  times  Pinch-a-Penny's  conscience  irked 
him  into  overhauling  his  ledgers.    'Twas  otherwise 
in  seasons  of  plenty.     But  Pinch-a-Penny's  con- 
science kept  pricking  away  just  the  same— aggravat- 
ing him  into  getting  richer  and  richer.     No  rest 
for  Pinch-a-Pennyl    He  had  to  have  all  the  money 
he  could  take  by  hook  and  crook  or  suffer  the  tor- 
tures of  an  evil  conscience.     Just  like  any  other 
man,  Pinch-a-penny  must  ease  that  conscience  or 
lose  sleep  o'  nights.    And  so  in  seasons  of  plenty 
up  went  the  price  of  tea  at  Pinch-a-Penny's  shop. 
And  up  went  the  price  of  pork.    And  up  went  the 
price  of  flour.    All  sky-high,  ecod  1    Never  was  such 
harsh  times,  says  Petor;  why,  my  dear  man,  up  St. 
John's  way,  says  he,  you  couldn't  touch  tea  nor 
pork  nor  flour  with  a  ten-foot  sealing-gaff ;  and  no 
telling  what  the  world  was  coming  to,  with  prices 
soaring  like  a  gull  in  a  gale  and  all  the  St.  John's 
merchants  chary  of  credit! 

"Damme!"  said  Pinch-a-Penny;  "  'tis  awful  times 
for  us  poor  traders.  No  tellin'  who'll  weather  this 
here  panic.  I'd  not  be  surprised  if  we  got  a  war 
out  of  it" 


144 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


Well,  now,  on  the  Newfoundland  north-coast  in 
them  days  'twasn't  much  like  the  big  world  beyond. 
Folk  didn't  cruise  about  They  was  too  busy.  And 
they  wasn't  used  to  it,  anyhow.  Gingerbread  Cove 
folk  wasn't  bom  at  Gingerbread  Cove,  raised  at 
Rickity  Tickle,  married  at  Seldom-Come-By,  aged 
at  Skeleton  Harbor,  and  buried  at  Run-by-Guess ; 
they  were  bom  and  buried  at  Gingerbread  Cove. 
So  what  the  fathers  thought  at  Gingerbread  Cove 
the  sons  thought;  and  what  the  sons  knowed  had 
been  knowed  by  the  old  men  for  a  good  many  years. 
Nobody  was  used  to  changes.  They  was  shy  of 
changes.  New  ways  was  fearsome.  And  so  the 
price  of  flour  was  a  mystery.  It  is,  anyhow — 
wherever  you  finds  it  It  always  has  been.  And 
why  it  should  go  up  and  down  at  Gingerbread  Cove 
was  beyond  any  man  of  Gingerbread  Cove  to 
fathom.  When  Pinch-a-Penny  said  the  price  of 
flour  was  up — ^well,  then,  she  was  up;  and  that's  all 
there  was  about  it  Nobody  knowed  no  better. 
And  Pinch-a-Penny  had  the  flour. 

Pinch-a-Penny  had  the  pork,  too.  And  he  had 
the  sweetness  and  the  tea.  And  he  had  the  shoes 
and  the  clothes  and  the  patent  medicines.  And  he 
had  the  twine  and  the  salt  And  he  had  all  the  cash 
there  was  at  Gingerbread  Cove.  And  he  had  the 
schooner  that  fetched  in  the  supplies  and  carried 
away  the  fish  to  the  St.  John's  markets.  He  was 
the  only  trader  at  Gingerbread  Cove ;  his  storehouses 
and  shop  was  fair  jammed  with  the  things  the  folk 


A  Croesus  of  Gingerbread  Cove        145 

of  Gingerbread  Cove  couldn't  do  without  and 
wasn't  able  to  get  nowhere  else.  So,  all  in  all, 
Pinch-a-Penny  Peter  could  make  trouble  for  the  folk 
that  made  trouble  for  he.  And  the  folk  grumbled. 
By  times,  ecod,  they  grumbled  like  the  devil  of  a 
a  fine  Sunday  morning!  But  'twas  all  they  had  the 
courage  to  do.  And  Pinch-a-Penny  let  un  grumble 
away.  The  best  cure  for  grumbling,  says  he,  was 
to  give  it  free  course.  If  a  man  could  speak  out  in 
meeting,  says  he,  he'd  work  no  mischief  in  secret. 
"Sea-lawyers,  eh?"  says  Peter.  "Huh!  What 
you  fellers  want,  anyhow?  Huh?  You  got  every- 
thing now  that  any  man  could  expect.  Isn't  you 
housed?  Isn't  you  *ed?  Isn't  you  clothed?  Isn't 
you  got  a  parson  and  a  schoolmaster?  Damme,  I 
believes  you  wants  a  doctor  settled  in  the  harbor! 
A  doctor!  An'  'tisn't  two  years  since  I  got  you 
your  schoolmaster!  Queer  times  we're  havin'  in 
the  outports  these  days,  with  every  harbor  on  the 
coast  wantin'  a  doctor  within  hail.  You're  well 
enough  done  by  at  Gingerbread  Cove.  None  better 
nowhere.  An'  why?  Does  you  ever  think  o'  that? 
Why?  Because  I  got  my  trade  here.  An'  think  o' 
met  Damme,  if  ar  a  one  o'  you  had  my  brain-labor 
t'  do,  you'd  soon  find  out  what  harsh  labor  was  like. 
What  with  bad  debts  an'  roguery  an'  failed  seasons 
an'  creditors  t'  St  John's  I'm  hard  put  to  it  t'  keep 
my  seven  senses.  An'  small  thanks  I  gets — me  that 
keeps  this  harbor  alive,  in  famine  an'  plenty.  'Tis 
the  business  I  haves  that  keeps  you.     You  make 


14« 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


trouble  for  my  business,  ecod,  an'  you'll  come  t' 
starvation !    Now,  you  mark  me !" 

There  would  be  a  scattered  time  when  Pinch-a- 
Penny  would  yield  an  inch.  Oh,  ay  I  I've  knowed 
Pinch-a-Penny  to  drop  the  price  of  stick-candy  when 
he  had  put  the  price  of  flour  too  high  for  anybody's 
comfort. 


Well,  now.  Long  Tom  Lane,  of  Gingerbread  Cove, 
had  a  conscience,  too.  But  'twas  a  common  con- 
science. Most  men  haves  un.  And  they're  irksome 
enough  for  some.  'Twas  not  like  Pinch-a-Penny 
Peter's  conscience.  Nothing  useful  ever  come  of  it. 
'Twas  like  yours  and  mine.  It  troubled  Tom  Lane 
to  be  honest  and  it  kept  him  poor.  All  Tom  Lane's 
conscience  ever  aggravated  him  to  do  was  just  to 
live  along  in  a  religious  sort  of  fashion  and  rear 
his  family  and  be  decently  stowed  away  in  the  grave- 
yard when  his  time  was  up  if  the  sea  didn't  cotch 
un  first.  But  'twas  a  busy  conscience  for  all  that 
— and  as  sharp  as  a  fish-prong.  No  rest  for  Tom 
Lane  if  he  didn't  fatten  his  wife  and  crew  of  little 
lads  and  maids  I  No  peace  of  mind  for  Tom  if 
he  didn't  labor!  And  so  Tom  labored  and  labored 
and  labored.  Dawn  to  dusk  his  punt  was  on  the 
grounds  off  Lack-a-Day  Head,  taking  fbh  from  the 
sea  to  be  salted  and  dried  and  passed  into  Pinch-a- 
Penny's  storehouses. 

When  Tom  Lane  was  along  about  fourteen  years 


A  Croesus  of  Gingerbread  Cove        147 

old  his  father  died.  'Twas  of  a  Sunday  afternoon 
that  we  stowed  un  away.  I  mind  the  time :  spring 
weather  and  a  fair  day,  with  the  sun  low,  and  the 
birds  twittering  in  the  alders  just  afore  turning  in. 

Pinch-a-Peimy  Peter  cotched  up  with  young  Tom 
on  the  road  home  from  the  little  graveyard  on  Sun- 
set Hill. 

"Well,  lad,"  says  he,  "the  old  skipper's  gone." 

"Ay,  sir,  he's  dead  an'  buried." 

"A  fine  man,"  says  Pinch-a-Penny.  "None 
finer." 

With  that  young  Tom  broke  out  crying.  "He 
were  a  kind  father  t'  we,"  says  he.  "An'  now  he's 
dead!" 

"You  lacked  nothin'  in  your  father's  lifetime," 
says  Peter. 

"An' row  he's  dead!" 

"Well,  well,  you've  no  call  t'  be  afeared  o'  goin' 
hungry  on  that  account,"  says  Peter,  laying  an  arm 
over  the  lad's  shoulder.  "No,  nor  none  o'  the  little 
crew  over  t'  your  house.  Take  up  the  fishin'  where 
your  father  left  it  off,  lad,"  says  he,  "an'  you'll  find 
small  difference.  I'll  cross  out  your  father's  name 
on  the  books  an'  put  down  your  own  in  its  stead." 

"I'm  fair  obliged,"  says  Tom.    "That's  kind,  sir." 

"Nothin*  like  kindness  t'  ease  sorrow,"  says 
Pinch-a-Penny.    "Your  father  died  in  debt,  lad." 

"Ay,  sir?" 

"Deep." 

"How  much,  sir?" 


148 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


i  I 


"I'm  not  able  f  teU  offhand,"  says  Peter.  "  'Twas 
deep  enough.  But  never  you  care.  You'll  be  able 
t'  square  it  in  course  o'  time.  You're  young  an' 
hearty.  An'  I'll  not  be  harsh.  Damme,  I'm  no 
skinflint  I" 

"That's  kind,  sir." 

"You — ^you — will  square  it?" 

"I  don't  know,  sir." 

"What?"  cries  Peter.  "What!  You're  not 
knowin',  eh?  That's  saucy  talk.  You  had  them 
there  supplies?" 

"I  'low,  sir." 

"An'  you  guzzled  your  share,  I'll  be  bound !" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"An'  your  mother  had  her  share?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"An'  you're  not  knowin'  whether  you'll  pay  or 
not!  Ecod!  What  is  you?  A  scoundrel?  A  dead 
beat?    A  rascal?    A  thief?    A  jail-bird?" 

"No,  sir." 

"  'Tis  for  the  likes  o'  you  that  jails  was  made." 

"Oh,  no,  sirl" 

"Doesn't  you  go  t'  church?  Is  that  what  they 
learns  you  there?  I'm  thinkin'  the  parson  doesn't 
earn  what  I  pays  un.    Isn't  you  got  no  conscience?" 

'Twas  too  much  for  young  Tom.  You  sees,  Tom 
Lane  had  a  conscience — ^a  conscience  as  fresh  and 
as  young  as  his  years.  And  Tom  had  loved  his 
father  well.  And  Tom  honored  his  father's  name. 
And  so  when  he  had  brooded  over  Pinch-a-Penny's 


A  Croesus  of  Gingerbread  Cove        149 

words  for  a  spell — and  when  he  had  maybe  laid 
awake  in  the  night  thinking  of  his  father's  goodness 
— ^he  went  over  to  Pinch-a-Penny's  office  and  al- 
lowed he'd  pay  his  father's  debt.  Pinch-a-Penny 
give  un  a  clap  on  the  back,  and  says :  "You  is  an 
honest  lad,  Tom  Lane!  I  knowed  you  was.  I'm 
proud  t'  have  your  name  on  my  books!" — ^and  that 
heartened  Tom  to  continue.  And  after  that  Tom 
kept  hacking  away  on  his  father's  debt.  In  good 
years  Pinch-a-Penny  would  say:  "She's  comin' 
down,  Tom.  I'll  just  apply  the  surplus."  And  in 
bad  he'd  say:  "You  isn't  quite  cotched  up  with 
your  own  self  this  season,  b'y.  A  httle  less  pork 
this  season,  Tom,  an'  you'll  square  this  here  little 
balance  afore  next.  J  wisht  this  whole  harbor  was 
as  honest  as  you.  No  trouble,  then,"  says  he,  "t' 
do  business  in  a  business-like  way." 

When  Tom  got  over  tlie  hill — fifty  and  more — 
his  father's  debt,  with  interest,  according  to  Pinch- 
a-Penny's  figures,  which  Tom  had  no  learning  to 
dispute,  was  more  than  it  ever  had  been;  and  his 
own  was  as  much  as  he  ever  could  hope  to  pay. 
And  by  that  time  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter  was  rich,  and 
Long  Tom  Lane  was  gone  sour. 


In  the  fall  of  the  year  when  Tom  Lane  was  fifty- 
three  he  went  up  to  St.  John's  in  Pinch-a-Penny 
Peter's  supply-schooner.  Noljody  knowed  why. 
And  Tom  made  a  mystery  of  it.  But  go  he  would. 
And  when  the  schooner  got  back  'twas  said  that 


150 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


\i   ii\- 


Tom  Lane  had  vanished  in  the  city  for  a  day.  Why  ? 
Nobody  knowed.  Where  ?  Nobody  could  find  out. 
Tom  wouldn't  tell,  nor  could  the  gossips  gain  a 
word  from  his  wife.  And,  after  that,  Tom  was  a 
changed  man ;  he  mooned  a  deal,  and  he  would  talk 
no  more  of  the  future,  but  dwelt  upon  the  shortness 
of  a  man's  days  and  the  quantity  of  his  sin,  and 
labored  like  mad,  and  read  the  Scriptures  by  candle- 
light, and  sot  more  store  by  going  to  church  and 
prayer-meeting  than  ever  afore.  Labor?  Ecod, 
how  that  poor  man  labored  through  the  winter! 
While  there  was  light !  And  imtil  he  fair  dropped 
in  his  tracks  of  sheer  weariness !  'Twas  back  in  the 
forest — ^hatiling  fire-wood  with  the  dogs  and  storing 
it  away  back  of  his  little  cottage  under  Lend-a- 
Hand  Hill. 

"Dear  man!"  says  Peter;  "you've  firewood  for 
half  a  dozen  winters." 

"They'll  need  it,"  says  Tom. 

"Ay,"  says  Peter;  "but  will  you  lie  idle  next 
winter?" 

"Next  winter?"  says  Tom.  And  he  laughed. 
"Oh,  next  winter,"  says  he,  "I'll  have  another  occu- 
pation." 

"Movin*  away,  Tom?" 

"Well,"  says  Tom,  "I  is  an'  I  isn't." 

There  come  a  day  in  March  weather  of  that  year 
when  seals  was  thick  on  the  floe  off  Gingerbread 
Cove.  You  could  see  un  with  the  naked  eye  from 
Lack-a-Day   Head.     A  hundred  thousand   black 


A  Crcesus  of  Gingerbread  Cove        151 


specks  swarming  over  the  ice  three  miles  and  more 
to  sea  I  "SwilesI  Swilesl"  And  Gingerbread  Cove 
went  mad  for  slaughter.  'Twas  a  fair  time  for 
off-shore  sealing,  too— a  blue,  still  day,  with  the  look 
and  feel  ci  settled  weather.  The  ice  had  come  in 
from  the  current  with  a  northeasterly  gale,  a  won- 
derful mixture  of  Arctic  bergs  and  Labrador  pans, 
all  blinding  white  in  the  spring  sun;  and  'twas  a 
field  so  vast,  and  jammed  so  tight  against  the  coast, 
that  there  wasn't  much  more  than  a  lane  or  two 
and  a  Dutchman's  breeches  of  open  water  within 
sight  from  the  heads.  Nobody  looked  for  a  gale 
of  off-shore  wind  to  blow  that  ice  afore  dawn  of  the 
next  day. 

"A  fine,  soft  time,  lads!"  says  Pinch-a-Penny. 
"I  'low  I'll  go  out  with  the  Gingerbread  crew." 

"Skipper  Peter,"  says  Tom  Lane,  "you'tt  too  old 
a  man  t'  be  on  the  ice." 

"Ay,"  says  Peter,  "but  I  wants  t'  bludgeon  another 
swile  afore  I  dies." 

"But  you  creaks,  man!" 

"Ah,  well,"  says  Peter,  "I'll  show  the  lads  I'm 
able  t'  haul  a  swile  ashore." 

"Small  hope  for  such  as  you  on  a  movin'  floe!" 

"Last  time,  Tom,"  says  Peter. 

"Last  time,  true  enough,"  says  Tom,  "if  that  ice 
starts  t'  sea  with  a  breeze  o'  wind  behind." 

"Oh,  well,  Tom,"  says  Peter,  "111  take  my 
chances.  If  the  wind  comes  up  I'll  be  as  spry  as 
I'm  able." 


152 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


It  come  on  to  blow  in  the  afternoon.  But  'twas 
short  warning  of  off-shore  weather.  A  puff  of  gray 
wind  come  down;  a  saucier  gust  went  by;  and  then 
a  swirl  of  galish  wind  jumped  over  the  pans.  At 
the  first  sign  of  wind,  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter  took 
for  home,  loping  over  the  ice  as  fast  as  his  lungs 
and  old  legs  would  take  im  when  pushed,  and  nobody 
worried  about  he  any  more.  He  was  in  such  mad 
haste  that  the  lads  laughed  behind  un  as  he  passed. 
Most  of  the  Gingerbread  crew  followed,  dragging 
their  swiles;  and  them  that  started  early  come  safe 
to  harbor  with  the  fat.  But  there's  nothing  will 
master  a  man's  caution  like  the  lust  of  slaughter: 
give  a  Newfoundlander  a  club,  and  show  un  a  swile- 
pack,  and  he'll  venture  far  from  safety.  'Twas  not 
until  a  flurry  of  snow  come  along  of  a  sudden  that 
the  last  of  the  crew  dropped  what  they  was  at  and 
begun  to  jump  for  shore  like  a  pack  of  jack-rabbits. 

With  snow  in  the  wind,  'twas  every  man  for  him- 
self.   And  that  means  no  mercy  and  less  help. 

By  this  time  the  ice  had  begun  to  feel  the  wind. 
'Twas  restless.  And  a  bad  promise:  the  pans 
crunched  and  creaked  as  they  settled  more  at  ease. 
The  ice  was  going  abroad.  As  the  farther  fields 
drifted  off  to  sea,  the  floe  fell  loose  inshore.  Lanes 
and  pools  opened  up.  The  cake-ice  tipped  and  went 
awash  under  the  weight  of  a  man.  Rough  going, 
ecod !  There  was  no  telling  when  open  water  would 
cut  a  man  off  where  he  stood.  And  the  wind  was 
whipping  off-shore,  and  the  snow  was  like  dust  in  a 


A  Crcesus  of  Gingerbread  Cove        158 

man's  eyes  and  mouth,  and  the  landmarks  of  Gnger- 
bread  Cove  was  nothing  but  shadows  in  a  mist  of 
snow  to  windward.  Nobody  knowed  where  Pinch- 
a-Penny  Peter  was.  Nobody  thought  about  him. 
And  wherever  poor  old  Pinch-a-Penny  was  — 
whether  safe  ashore  or  creaking  shoreward  against 
the  wind  on  his  last  legs — ^he  must  do  for  himself. 
'Twas  no  time  to  succor  rich  or  poor.  Every  man 
for  himself  and  the  devil  take  the  hindmost. 

Bound  out,  in  the  morning.  Long  Tom  Lane  had 
fetched  his  rodney  through  the  lanes.  By  luck  and 
good  conduct  he  had  managed  to  get  the  wee  boat 
a  fairish  way  out  He  had  beached  her,  there  on 
the  floe — a  big  pan,  close  by  a  hummock  which  he 
marked  with  care.  And  'twas  for  Tom  Lane's  little 
rodney  that  the  seven  last  men  of  Gingerbread  Cove 
was  jumping.  With  her  afloat — and  the  pack 
loosening  in-shore  under  the  wind — ^they  could  make 
harbor  well  enough  afore  the  gale  worked  up  the 
water  in  the  lee  of  the  Gingerbread  hills.  But  she 
was  a  mean,  small  boat.  There  was  room  for  six, 
with  safety — but  room  for  no  more;  no  room  for 
seven.  'Twas  a  nasty  mess,  to  be  sure.  You 
couldn't  expect  nothing  else.  But  there  wasn't  no 
panic.  Gingerbread  men  was  accustomed  to  tight 
places.  And  they  took  this  one  easy.  Them  that 
got  there  first  launched  the  boat  and  stepped  in.  No 
fight;  no  fuss. 

It  just  happened  to  be  Eleazer  Butt  that  was  left. 


154 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


11 


'Twas  Eleazer's  ill-luck.    And  Eleazer  was  up  in 
years,  and  had  fell  behind  coming  over  the  ice. 

"No  room  for  me?"  says  he. 

'Twas  sure  death  to  be  left  on  the  ice.  The  wind 
begun  to  taste  of  frost.  And  'twas  jumping  up. 
'Twould  carry  the  floe  far  and  scatter  it  broadcast. 

"See  for  yourself,  lad,"  says  Tom. 

"Pshaw  I"  says  Eleazer.    "That's  too  bad  1" 

"You  isn't  no  sorrier  than  me,  b'y." 

Eleazer  tweaked  his  beard.  "Dang  it  I"  says  he. 
"I  wisht  there  was  room.  I'm  hungry  for  my 
supper." 

"Let  un  in,"  says  one  of  the  lads.  "  'Tis  even 
chances  she'll  float  it  out." 

"Well,"  says  Eleazer,  "I  doesn't  want  t'  make 
no  trouble " 

"Come  aboard,"  says  Tom.    "An'  make  haste." 

"If  she  makes  bad  weather,"  says  Eleazer,  "I'll 
get  out." 

They  pushed  off  from  the  pan.  'Twas  falling 
dusk,  by  this  time.  The  wind  Mowed  black.  The 
frost  begun  to  bite.  Snow  came  thick — ^just  as  if, 
ecod,  somebody  up  aloft  was  shaking  the  clouds, 
like  bags,  in  the  gale!  And  the  rodney  was  deep 
and  ticklish ;  had  the  ice  not  kept  the  water  flat  in 
the  lanes  and  pools,  either  Eleazer  would  have  had 
to  get  out,  as  he  promised,  or  she  would  have 
swamped  like  a  cup.  As  it  was,  handled  like  dyna- 
mite, she  done  well  enough;  and  she  might  have 
made  harbor  within  the  hour  had  she  not  been  hailed 


A  Croesus  of  Gingerbread  Cove        155 

by  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter  from  a  small  pan  of  ice 
midway  between. 

And  there  the  old  codger  was  squatting,  his  old 
face  pinched  and  woebegone,  his  bag  o'  bones 
wrapped  up  in  his  coonskin  coat,  his  pan  near  flush 
with  the  sea,  with  little  black  waves  already  begin- 
ning to  wash  over  it 

A  sad  sight,  believe  me  I  Poor  old  Pinch-a-Penny, 
bound  out  to  sea  without  ho^  on  a  wee  pan  of  ice  I 

"Got  any  room  for  me?"  says  he. 

They  ranged  alongside.  "Mercy  o'  God!"  says 
Tom;  "she's  too  deep  as  it  is." 

"Ay,"  says  Peter;  "you  isn't  got  room  for  no 
more.    She'd  sink  if  I  put  foot  in  her." 

"Us'll  come  back,"  says  Tom. 

"No  use,  Tom,"  says  Peter.  "You  knows  that 
well  enough.  'Tis  no  place  out  here  for  a  Ginger- 
bread punt.  Afore  you  could  get  t'  shore  an'  back 
night  will  be  down  an'  this  here  gale  will  be  a 
blizzard.    You'd  never  be  able  t'  find  me." 

"I  'low  not,"  says  Tom. 

"Oh,  no,"  says  Peter.    "No  use,  b'y." 

"Damme,  Skipper  Peter,"  says  Tom,  "I'm  sorry!" 

"Ay,"  says  Peter; "  'tis  a  sad  death  for  an  ol'  man 
— squattin'  out  here  all  alone  on  the  ice  an'  shiverin' 
with  the  cold  until  he  shakes  his  poor  damned  soul 
out." 

"Not  damned!"  cries  Tom.    "Oh,  don't  say  it!" 

"Ah,  well!"  says  Peter;  "sittin'  here  all  alone,  I 
been  tbinkin'." 


lat  Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

"  'Tisn't  by  any  man'i  wish  that  you're  here,  poor 
man  I"  »ay»  Tom. 

"Oh,  no;"  says  Peter.  "No  Mame  t' nobody.  My 
time's  come.  That's  all.  But  I  wisht  I  had  a  seat 
in  your  rodney,  Tom." 

And  then  Tom  chuckled. 

"What  you  laughin'  at?"  says  Peter. 

"I  got  a  comical  idea,"  says  Tom. 

"Laughin'  at  me,  Tom?" 

"Oh,  I'm  jus'  laughin'." 

"  'Tis  neither  time  nor  place,  Tom,"  says  Peter, 
"t*  laugh  at  an  old  maa" 

Tom  roared.  Ay,  he  slapped  his  knee,  and  he 
throwed  back  his  head,  and  he  roared.  'Twas 
enough  almost  to  swamp  the  boat. 

"For  shame  I"  says  Peter.  And  more  than  Pinch- 
a-Penny  thought  so. 

"Skipper  Peter,"  says  Tom,  "you're  rich,  isn't 
your 

"I  got  money,"  says  Peter. 

"Sittin'  out  here,  all  alone  "  says  Tom,  "you  been 
thinkin'  a  deal,  you  says?" 

"Well,"  says  Peter,  "I'll  not  deny  that  I  been 
havin'  a  little  spurt  o'  sober  thought." 

"You  been  thinkin'  that  money  wasn't  much,  after 
all?" 

"Ay." 

"An'  that  all  your  money  in  a  lump  wouldn't  buy 
you  passage  ashore?" 


A  Croesus  of  Gingerbread  Cove        157 

"Oh,  some  few  uiuU  thoughts  on  that  order," 
says  Peter.    "  'Tis  perfectly  natural." 

"Money  Ulks,"  says  Tom. 

"Tauntin'  me  again,  Tom?" 

"No,  I  isn't,"  says  Tom.  "I  means  it.  Money 
talks.    What'll  you  give  for  my  seat  in  th.  I.  -at?" 

"  Tis  not  for  sale,  Tom." 

The  lads  begun  to  grumble.  It  se^nuJ  .i  a*  as 
if  Long  Tom  Lane  was  making  game  •  .^r  ok  irnn 
in  trouble.  'Twas  either  that  or  lunacy.  \nd  ticn 
was  no  time  for  nonsense  oflE  the  Gingcrbr.:  .^  roast 
in  a  spring  gale  of  wind. 

"Hist!"  Tom  whispered  to  the  lads.  "I  knuws 
what  I'm  doin'." 

"A  mad  thing,  Tom!" 

"Oh,  no!"  says  Tom.  "'Tis  the  cleverest  thing 
ever  I  thought  of.  Well,"  says  he  to  Peter,  "how 
much?" 

"No  man  seUs  his  life." 

"Life  or  no  life,  my  place  in  this  boat  is  for  sale," 
says  Tom.  "Money  talks.  Come,  now.  Speak  up. 
Us  can't  linger  here  with  night  comin'  down." 

"What's  the  price,  Tom?" 

"How  much  you  got,  Peter?" 

"Ah,  well,  I  can  afford  a  stifBsh  price,  Tom.  Any- 
thing you  say  in  reason  will  suit  me.  You  name 
the  price,  Tom.    I'll  pay." 

"Ay,  ye  crab!"  says  Tom.  "I'm  namin'  prices 
now.    Lookout,  Peter!   You're  seventy-three.    I'm 


T'l 


158  Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

fifty-three.    Will  you  grant  that  I'd  live  t'  be  as 
old  as  you?" 

"I'll  grant  it,  Tom." 

"I'm  not  sayin'  I  would,"  says  Tom.    "You  mark 
that." 

"Ah,  well,  I'll  grant  it,  anyhow." 
"I  been  an  industrious  man  all  my  life.  Skipper 
Peter.    None  knows  it  better  than  you.    Will  you 
grant  that  I'd  earn  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  a 
year  if  I  lived?" 
"Ay,  Tom." 

Down  come  a  gust  of  wind.    "Have  done !"  says 
one  of  the  lads.    "Here's  the  gale  come  down  with 
the  dark.    Us'll  all  be  cast  away." 
"Rodney's  mine,  isn't  she?"  says  Tom. 
Well,  she  was.   Nobody  could  say  nothing  to  that. 
And  nobody  did. 

"That's  three  thousand  dollars,  Peter,"  says  Tom. 
"Three — ^thousand — dollars !" 

"Ay,"  says  Peter,  "she  calculates  that  way.  But 
you've  forgot  t'  deduct  your  livin'  from  the  total. 
Not  that  I  minds,"  says  he.  "  'Tis  just  a  business 
detail." 
"Damme,"  says  Tom.  "I'll  not  be  harsh !" 
"Another  thing,  Tom,"  says  Peter.  "You're 
askin'  me  t'  pay  for  twenty  years  o'  Fife  when  I  can 
use  but  a  few.    God  knows  how  many !" 

"I  got  you  whe/e  I  wants  you,"  says  Tom,  "but 
I  isn't  got  the  heart  t'  grind  you.  Will  you  pay  two 
thousand  dollars  for  my  seat  in  the  boat?" 


A  Croesus  of  Gingerbread  Cove        159 

"If  you  is  feral  enough  t'  take  it,  Tom." 

"There's  something  t'  boot,"  says  Tom.  "I  wants 
t'  die  out  o'  debt." 

"You  does,  Tom." 

"An'  my  father's  bill  is  squared?" 

"Ay." 

"  'Tis  a  bargain !"  says  Tom.    "God  witness  1" 

"Lads,"  says  Pinch-a-Penny  to  the  others  in  the 
rodney,  "I  calls  you  t'  witness  that  I  didn't  ask  Tom 
Lane  for  his  seat  in  the  boat  I  isn't  no  coward. 
I've  asked  no  man  t'  give  up  his  life  for  me.  This 
here  bargain  is  a  straight  business  deal.  Business 
is  business.  'Tis  not  my  proposition.  An'  I  calls 
you  t'  witness  that  I'm  willin'  t'  pay  what  he  asks. 
He've  something  for  sale.  I  wants  it.  I've  the 
money  t'  buy  it.  The  price  is  his.  I'll  pay  it." 
Then  he  turned  to  Tom.  "You  wants  this  money 
paid  t'  your  wife,  Tom?" 

"Ay,"  says  Tom,  "t'  Mary.    She'll  know  why." 

"Very  good,"  says  Pinch-a-Penny.  "You've  my 
word  that  I'll  do  it.  .  .  .  Wind's  jiunpin'  up, 
Tom." 

"I  wants  your  oath.  The  wind  will  bide  for  that. 
Hold  up  your  right  hand." 

Pinch-a-Penny  shivered  in  a  blast  of  the  gale.  "I 
swears,"  says  he. 

"Lads,"  says  Tom,  "you'll  shame  this  man  to  his 
grave  if  he  fails  t'  pay  I" 

"Gettin'  dark,  Tom,"  says  Peter. 

"Ay,"  says  Tom ;  "  'tis  growin'  wonderful  cold 


*  !il 


1 1-  ' 


160  Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

I  knows  it  well.    Put  me  ashore 


He 


an'  dark  out  here, 
on  the  ice,  lads." 

They  landed  Tom,  then,  on  a  near-by  pan. 
would  have  it  so. 

"Leave  me  have  my  way!"  says  he.  "I've  done 
a  good  stroke  o'  business." 

Presently  they  took  old  Pinch-a-Penny  aboard  in 
Tom's  stead;  and  just  for  a  minute  they  hung  oflE 
Tom's  pan  to  say  good-by. 

"I  sends  my  love  t'  Mary  an'  the  children,"  says 
he.  "You'll  not  fail  t'  remember.  She'll  know  why 
I  done  this  thing.  TeU  her  'twas  a  grand  chance 
an'  I  took  it" 

"Ay,  Tom." 

"Fetch  in  here  close,"  says  Tom.  "I  want's  t' 
talk  t'  the  ol'  skinflint  you  got  aboard  there.  I'll 
have  my  say,  ecod,  at  last!  Ye  crab!"  says  he, 
shaking  his  fist  in  Pinch-a-Penny's  face,  when  the 
rodney  got  alongside.  "Ye  robber!  Ye  pinch-a- 
penny!  Ye  liar!  Ye  thief  I  I  done  ye!  Hear  me? 
I  done  ye!  I  vowed  I'd  even  scores  with  ye  afore 
Idled.  An' I've  done  it— I've  done  it!  What  did 
ye  buy?  Twenty  years  o*  my  life!  What  will  ye 
pay  for?  Twenty  years  o'  my  life!"  And  he 
laughed.  And  then  he  cut  a  caper,  and  come  close 
to  the  edge  of  the  pan,  and  shook  his  fist  in  Pinch- 
a-Penny's  face  again.  "Know  what  I  done  in  St. 
John's  last  fall?"  says  he.  "I  setn  a  doctor,  ye 
crab!  Know  what  he  told  me?  No,  ye  don't! 
Twenty  years  o'  my  life  this  here  ol'  skinflint  will 


A  Croesus  of  Gingerbread  Cove        161 

pay  for !"  he  crowed.  "Two  thousand  dollars  he'll 
put  in  the  hands  o'  my  poor  wife !" 

Well,  well!  The  rodney  was  moving  away.  And 
a  swirl  of  snow  shrouded  poor  Tom  Lane.  But  they 
heard  un  laugh  once  more. 

"My  heart  is  givin'  'way,  anyhow!"  he  yelled. 
"I  didn't  have  three  months  f  live!" 

Old  Pinch-a-Penny  Peter  dtne  what  he  said  he 
would  do.  He  laid  tiie  money  in  poor  Mary  Lane's 
hands.  But  a  queer  thing  happened  next  day.  Up 
went  the  price  of  pork  at  Pinch-a-Penny's  shop! 
And  up  went  the  price  of  tea  and  molasses !  And 
uo  went  the  price  of  flour! 


:liS 


":<€' 
\%^^% 


■.I\   1 


•;>!■  y  '^'1 
.*^i- 


VI 

A  MADONNA  OF  TINKLE 
TICKLE 


i 


VI 

A  MADONNA  OF  TINKLE  TICKLE 


i 

;i 

•i 


IT  was  at  Soap-an'-Water  Harbor,  with  the 
trader  Quick  as  Wink  in  from  the  sudsy  seas 
of  those  parts,  that  Tumm,  the  old  clerk,  told 
the  singular  tale  of  the  Madonna  of  Tinkle  Tickle. 
"I'm  no  hand  for  sixpenny  novels,"  says  he,  with 
a  wry  glance  at  the  skipper's  dog-eared  romance. 
"Nursemaids  an'  noblemen?  I'm  char>-.  I've  no 
love,  anyhow,  for  the  things  o'  mere  fancy.  But 
I'm  a  great  reader,"  he  protested,  with  quick 
warmth,  "o'  the  tales  that  are  lived  under  the  two 
eyes  in  my  head.  I'm  forever  in  my  lib'ry,  too. 
Jus'  now,"  he  added,  his  eye  on  a  dismayed  little 
man  from  Chain  Harbor,  "I'm  readin'  the  book  o' 
the  cook.  An'  I'm  lookin'  for  a  sad  endin',  ecod, 
if  he  keeps  on  scorchin'  the  water !" 

The  squat  little  Newfoundland  schooner  was  snu^ 
in  the  lee  of  False  Frenchman  and  down  for  the 
night.  A  wet  time  abroad:  a  black  wind  in  the 
rigging,  and  the  swish  and  patter  of  rain  on  the 
deck.  But  the  forecastle  bogey  was  roaring,  and 
the  forecastle  lamp  was  bright;  and  the  crew — at 

165 


if 


166 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


ease  and  dry— sprawled  content  in  the  forecastle 

glow. 

"Lyin'  here  at  Soap-an'-Water  Harbor,  with 
Tinkle  Tickle  hard-by,"  the  clerk  drawled  on,  "I 
been  thumbin'  over  the  queer  yam  o'  Mary  Mull. 
An'  I  been  enjoyin'  it,  too.  An  old  tale— lived  long 
ago.  'Tis  a  tale  t'  my  i  •te.  It  touches  the  heart 
of  a  woman.    An'  so   i^ds— 'tis  a  mystery." 

Then  the  tale  that  *  as  lived  page  by  page  under 
the  two  eyes  in  Tumni's  head: 

"Tim  Mull  was  fair  dogged  by  the  children  o' 
Tinkle  Tickle  in  his  badielor  days,"  the  tale  ran 
on.  "There  was  that  about  un,  somehow,  in  eyes 
or  voice,  t'  win  the  love  o'  kids,  dogs,  an'  grand- 
mothers. 'Leave  the  kids  have  their  way,'  says  he. 
'I  likes  t'  have  un  t'  come  t'  me.  They're  no  bother 
at  .all.  Why,  damme,'  says  he,  'they  uplift  the  soul 
of  a  bachelor  manlike  me!    I  loves  un.' 

"  'You'n  be  havin'  a  crew  o'  your  own,  some 
day,'  says  Tom  Blot,  'an'  you'll  not  be  so  fond  o' 
the  company.' 

"  'I'll  ship  all  the  Lord  sends.' 

'"Ah-ha,  b'yl'  chuckles  Tom,  'HeVe  a  wonder- 
ful store  o'  little  souls  up  aloft.' 

"  'Then,'  says  Tim,  'I'll  thank  Un  t'  be  lavish." 

"Tom  Blot  was  an  old,  old  man,  long  past  his 
labor,  creakin'  over  the  roads  o'  Harbor  with  a  stafi 
t'  help  his  dry  legs,  an'  much  give  t'  broodin'  cm  the 
things  he'd  found  out  in  this  life.  '  'Tis  rare  that 
He's  mean  with  such  gifts,'  says  he.     'But  'tis 


A  Madonna  of  Tinkle  Tickle         167 

queer  the  way  He  bestows  un.  Ecod!'  says  he,  in 
a  temper,  'I've  never  been  able  t'  fathom  his  ways, 
old  as  I  isl' 

"  'I  wants  a  big  crew  o'  lads  an'  little  maids, 
Tom,'  says  Tim  MuU.  'Can't  be  too  many  tor  me 
if  I'm  to  enjoy  my  cruise  in  this  world.' 

"  'They've  wide  mouths,  lad.' 

"'Hut!'  says  Tim.  'What's  a  man  for?  I'll 
stuff  their  little  crops.    You  mark  mt,  b'y  I' 

"So  it  went  with  Tim  Mull  in  his  bachelor  days: 
he'd  forever  a  maid  on  his  shoulder  or  a  lad  by 
the  hand.  He  loved  un.  'Twas  knowed  that  he 
loved  un.  There  wasn't  a  man  or  maid  at  Tinkle 
Tickle  that  didn't  know.  'Twas  a  thing  that  was 
called  t'  mind  whenever  the  name  o'  Tim  Mull  come 
up.  'Can't  be  too  many  kids  about  for  Tim  Mull !' 
An'  they  loved  him.  They'd  wait  for  un  t'  cone 
in  from  the  sea  at  dusk  o'  fine  days;  an"  on  fine 
Sunday  afternoons — sun  out  an'  a  blue  wind 
blowin' — they'd  troop  at  his  heels  over  the  roads 
an'  hills  o'  the  Tickle.  They'd  have  no  festival 
without  un.  On  the  eve  o'  Guy  Fawkes,  in  the  fall 
o'  the  year,  with  the  Gunpowder  Pk)t  t'  cdebrate, 
when  't  was 


Remember,  remember. 
The  Fifth  o'  November! 


't  was  Tim  Mull  that  must  wind  the  fire-balls,  an' 
sot  the  bonfires,  an'  put  saleratus  on  the  blisters.  An' 


168  Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

at  Christmastide,  when  the  kids  o'  Harbor  come 
carolin'  up  the  hiU,  aU  in  mumniers'  dress,  pipm'r- 

God  reit  you,  meriy  gentlemen; 
Let  nothin'  you  dtunayl 

't  was  Tim  Mtill,  in  his  cottage  by  Fo'c's'le  Head, 
that  had  a  big  blaze,  an'  a  cake,  an'  a  tele,  an  a 
tune  on  the  concertina,  for  the  rowdy  crew. 

"  'I  love  un!'  says  he.    'Can't  be  too  many  for 

"An'  everybody  knowed  it;  an'  everybody  won- 
dered, too,  how  Tim  MuU  would  skipper  his  own 
little  crew  when  he'd  shipped  un. 

"Tim  Mull  feU  in  love,  by-an'-by,  with  a  dark 
maid  o'  the  Tickle.  By  this  time  his  mother  was 
dead,  an'  he  lived  all  alone  in  the  cottage  by 
Fo'c's'le  Head.  He  had  full  measure  o'  the  looks 
an'  ways  that  win  women.  'Twas  the  fashion  t'  fish 
for  un.  An'  'twas  a  thing  that  was  shameless  as 
fashion.  Most  o'  the  maids  o'  Harbor  had  cast 
hooks.  Polly  Twitter,  for  one,  an'  in  desperation: 
a  pink  an'  blue  wee  parcel  o'  fluff— an'  a  trim  little 
craft,  withal.  But  Tim  Mull  knowed  nothin'  o 
this,  at  all;  he  was  too  stupid,  maybe,— an'  too 
decent,— t'  read  the  gUices  an'  blushes  an'  laughter 
they  flung  out  for  bait. 

"  'Twas  Mary  Low— who'd  cast  no  eyes  his  way 
—that  overcome  un.  She  loved  Tim  Mull.  No 
doubt,  in  the  way  o'  maids,  she  had  cherished  her 


A  Madonna  of  Tinkle  Tickle         169 

hope ;  an'  it  may  be  she  had  grieved  t'  see  big  Tim 
Mull,  entangled  in  ribbons  an'  curls  an'  the  sparkle 
o'  blue  eyes,  indulge  the  flirtatious  ways  o'  pretty 
little  Polly  Twitter.  A  tall  maid,  this  Mary— soft 
an'  brown.  She'd  brown  eyes,  with  black  lashes  to 
hide  un,  an'  brown  hair,  growin'  low  an'  curly; 
an'  her  round  cheeks  was  brown,  too,  flushed  with 
red.  She  was  a  maid  with  sweet  ways  an'  a  tender 
pride;  she  was  slow  t'  speak  an'  not  much  give  t' 
laughter;  an'  she  had  the  sad  habit  o'  broodin' 
overmuch  in  the  dusk.  But  sh  '-i  eyes  ff^'  love, 
never  fear,  an'  her  lips  was  warm;  an'  there  come 
a  night  in  spring  weather— broad  moonlight  an'  a 
still  world— when  Tim  Mull  give  way  to  his 
courage. 

"  'Tumm,'  says  he,  when  he  come  in  from  his 
courtin',  that  night,  'there'll  be  guns  poppin'  at 
Tinkle  Tickle  come  Friday.' 
'"A  weddin'?'  says  I. 

"  'Me  an'  Mary  Low,  Tumm.    I  been  overcome 
at  last.    'Twas  the  moon." 

"  'She's  ever  the  friend  o'  maids,'  says  I. 
"  'An'  the  tinkle  of  a  goat's  bell  on  Lookout.  It 
fell  down  from  the  slope  t'  the  shadows  where  the 
alders  arch  over  the  road  by  Needle  Rock.  Jus' 
when  me  an'  Mary  was  passin'  through,  Tumm! 
You'd  never  believe  such  an  accident.  There's  no 
resistin*  brown  eyes  in  spring  weather.  She's  a 
wonderful  woman,  lad.' 
"  'That's  queer!'  says  1. 


MICtOCOPY   RESOiUTKm   TEST   CHART 

(ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


^  APPLIED  IfVMGE    In 

^S-^  1653   Eosi   Main   Slroel 

B*^  RochMter,   New  York         M609       US* 

^^  (716)    «82  -  0300  -  Phone 

^^  (716)   268  -  5989  -  Fax 


170 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


"  'A  wonderf ttl  woman,'  says  he.  'No  shallow 
water  there.  She's  deep.  I  can't  tell  you  how  won- 
derful she  is.  Sure,  I'd  have  t'  play  it  on  the  con- 
certina.' 

"  'I'll  lead  the  chivari,'  says  I,  'an'  you  grant  me 
a  favor.' 

"  'Done !'  says  he. 

"  'Well,  Tim,'  says  I,  'I'm  a  bom  godfather.' 

"  'Ecod !'  says  he.  An'  he  slapped  his  knee  an' 
chuckled.  'Does  you  mean  it?  Tobias  Tumm 
Mull!  'Twill  be  a  very  good  name  for  the  first 
o'  my  little  crew.  Haw,  haw !  The  thing's  as  good 
as  managed.' 

"So  they  was  wed,  hard  an'  fast ;  an'  the  women 
o'  Tinkle  Tickle  laughed  on  the  sly  at  pretty  Polly 
Twitter  an'  condemned  her  shameless  ways." 


"In  the  fall  o'  that  year  I  went  down  Barbadoes 
way  in  a  fish-craft  from  St  John's.  An'  from  Bar- 
badoes, with  youth  upon  me  t'  urge  adventure,  I 
shipped  of  a  sudden  for  Spanish  ports.  'Twas  a 
matter  o'  four  years  afore  I  clapped  eyes  on  the 
hills  o'  Tinkle  Tickle  again.  An'  I  mind  well  that 
when  the  schooner  hauled  down  ol'  Fo'c's'le  Head, 
that  day,  I  was  in  a  fret  t'  see  the  godson  that  Tim 
Mull  had  promised  me.  But  there  wasn't  no  god- 
son t'  see.    There  wasn't  no  child  at  all. 

"  'Well,  no,  Tumm,'  says  Tim  Mull,  'we  hasn't 
been  favored  in  that  particular  line.  But  I'm  con- 
tent.   All  the  children  o'  Harbor  is  mine,'  says  he. 


A  Madonna  of  Tinkle  Tickle        171 

'jus'  as  they  used  t*  be,  an'  there's  no  sign  o'  the 
supply  givin'  out  Sure,  I've  no  complaint  o'  my 
fortune  in  life.' 

"Nor  did  Mary  Mull  complain.  She  thrived,  as 
ever:  she  was  soft  an'  brown  an'  flushed  with  the 
color  o'  flowers,  as  when  she  was  a  maid;  an'  she 
rippled  with  smiles,  as  then,  in  the  best  of  her  moods, 
like  the  sea  on  a  simlit  afternoon. 

"  'I've  Tim,'  says  she,  'an'  with  Tim  I'm  content 
Your  godson,  Tumm,  had  he  deigned  to  sail  in, 
would  have  been  no  match  for  my  Tim  in  good- 
ness.' 

"An"  still  the  children  o'  Tinkle  Tickle  trooped 
after  Tim  Mull ;  an'  still  he'd  forever  a  maid  on  his 
shoulder  or  a  wee  lad  by  the  hand. 

"  'Fair  winds,  Tumm !'  says  Tim  Mull.  'Me  an' 
Mary  is  wonderful  happy  t'gether.' 

"  'Isn't  a  thing  we  could  ask  for,'  says  she. 

"'Well,  well!'  says  I.  'Now,  that's  good, 
Mary  I' 

"There  come  that  summer  t'  Tinkle  Tickle  she 
that  was  once  Polly  Twitter.  An'  trouble  clung  to 
her  skirts.  Little  vixen,  she  was!  No  tellin'  how 
deep  a  wee  woman  can  bite  when  she've  the  mind 
t'  put  her  teeth  in.  Nobody  at  Tinkle  Tickle  but 
knowed  that  the  maid  had  loved  Tim  Mull  too  well 
for  her  peace  o'  mind.  Mary  Mull  knowed  it  well 
enough.  Not  Tim,  maybe.  But  none  better  than 
Mary.  'Twas  no  secret,  at  all:  for  Polly  Twitter 
had  carried  on  like  the  bereft  when  Tim  Mull  was 


,1 


17«  Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

wed— had  cried  an*  drooped  an'  gone  white  an' 
thin,  boastin',  all  the  while,  t'  draw  friendly  notice, 
that  her  heart  was  broke  for  good  an'  all.  'Twas 
a  year  an'  more  afore  she  flung  up  her  pretty  httle 
head  an'  married  a  good  man  o'  Skeleton  Bight. 
An"  now  here  she  was,  come  back  again,  plump  an 
dimpled  an'  roguish  as  ever  she'd  been  m  her  life. 
On  a  bit  of  a  cruise,  says  she;  but  'twas  not  on  a 
cruise  she'd  come^'twas  t'  flaunt  her  new  baby  on 
the  roads  o'  Tinkle  Tickle. 

"A  wonderful  baby,  ecod!  You'd  think  it  t  hear 
the  women  cackle  o'  the  quality  o'  that  child.  An 
none  more  than  Mary  Mull.  She  kissed  Polly 
Twitter,  an'  she  kissed  the  baby;  an'  she  vowed— 
with  the  sparkle  o'  joyous  truth  in  her  wet  brown 
eyes-that  the  most  bewitchin'  baby  on  the  coast, 
the  stoutest  baby,  the  cleverest  baby,  the  sweetest 
baby,  had  come  straight  f  Polly  Twitter,  as  though 
it  wanted  the  very  prettiest  mother  in  all  the  world, 
an'  knowed  jus'  what  it  was  about. 

"An'  Polly  kissed  Mary.    "You  is  so  kind.  Mary  r 

says  she.    "Tis  jus' weef  o' you !    How  con  you!' 

"  'Sweet?'  says  Mary,  puzzled.    "Why,  no,  Polly. 

I'm— glad.' 
"  'Is  you,  Mary?    'Tis  so  odd!    Is  you  really— 

gladf 

"  -Why  not?'  ^     t    t    t 

"  'I  don't  know,  Mary,'  says  Polly.    'But  I— 1— l 

'lowed,  somehow— that  you  wouldn't  be— so  very 

glad.    An'  I'm  not  sure  that  I'm  grateful— enough. 


A  Madonna  of  Tinkle  Tickle         173 

"An'  the  women  o'  Tinkle  Tickle  wondered,  too, 
that  Mary  Mull  could  kiss  Polly  Twitter's  baby. 
Polly  Twitter  with  a  rosy  baby, — a  lusty  young 
nipper, — an'  a  lad,  t'  boot!  An'  poor  Mary  Mull 
with  no  child,  at  all,  t'  bless  Tim  Mull's  house  with  I 
An'  Tim  Mull  a  lover  o'  children,  as  everybody 
knowed !  The  men  chuckled  a  Httle,  an'  cast  winks 
about,  when  Polly  Twitter  appeared  on  the  roads 
with  the  baby ;  for  'twas  a  comical  thing  t'  see  her 
air  an'  her  strut  an'  the  flash  o'  pride  in  her  eyes. 
But  the  women  kep'  their  eyes  an'  ears  open — an' 
waited  for  what  might  happen.  They  was  all  sure, 
ecod,  that  there  was  a  gale  comin'  down;  an'  they 
was  women, — an'  they  knowed  the  hearts  o'  women, 
— an'  they  was  wise,  if  not  kind,  in  their  expecta- 
tion. 

"As  for  Mary  MJl,  she  give  never  a  sign  o' 
trouble,  but  kep'  right  on  kissin'  Polly  Twitter's 
baby,  whenever  she  met  it,  which  Polly  contrived 
t'  be  often ;  an'  I  doubt  that  she  knowed — until  she 
couldn't  help  knowin' — that  there  was  pity  abroad 
at  Tinkle  Tickle  for  Tim  Mull. 

"'Twas  at  the  Methodist  treat  on  Bide-a-Bit 
Point  that  Polly  Twitter  managed  her  mischief. 
'Twas  a  time  well-chosen,  too.  Trust  the  little  minx 
for  that!  She  was  swift  t'  bite — an'  clever  t'  fix 
her  white  little  fangs.  There  was  a  flock  o'  women, 
Mary  Mull  among  un,  in  gossip  by  the  baskets.  An' 
Polly  Twitter  was  there,  too, — an'  the  baby.    Sun 


174 


Harbor  Tales  Down  Noith 


under  a  black  sea ;  then  the  cold  breath  o'  dusk,  with 
fog  in  the  wind,  comin'  over  the  hills. 

"  'Tim  Mull,'  says  Polly,  'hold  the  baby.' 

"  'Me?'  says  he.    'I'm  a  butterfingers,  Polly.' 

"'Come!'  says  she. 

"  'No,  no,  Polly!    I'm  timid.' 

"She  laughed  at  that.  'I'd  like  t'  see  you  once! 
says  she,  'with  a  wee  baby  in  your  arms,  as  if 
'twas  your  ovm.  You'd  look  well.  I'm  thinkin'. 
Come,  take  un,  Tim !' 

"  'Pass  un  over,'  says  he. 

"She  gave  un  the  child.  'Well!'  says  she,  throw- 
in'  up  her  little  hands.  'You  looks  perfectly  natu- 
ral. Do  he  not,  Mary?  It  might  be  his  own  for 
all  one  could  tell.  Why,  Tim,  you  was  made  for 
the  like  o'  that.    Do  it  feel  nice  ?' 

"  'Ay,'  says  pocr  Tin,  from  his  heart.    'It  do.' 

"  'Well,  well!'  says  Polly.  'I  'low  you're  wishin', 
Tim,  for  one  o'  your  own.' 

"  'I  is.' 

"Polly  kissed  the  baby,  then,  an'  rubbed  it  cheek 
t'  cheek,  so  that  her  fluffy  little  '..^d  was  close  t' 
Tim.     She  looked  up  in  his  eyes.     "Tis  a  pity  I' 
says  she.    An'  she  sighed. 
"  'Pity?'  says  he.    'Why,  no!' 
'  'Poor  lad!'  says  she.    'Poor  ladl' 
"'What's  this!'  says  Tim.     'I've  no  cause  for 
grief.' 

"There  was  tears  in  little  Polly's  blue  eyes  as  she 
took  back  the  child.    '  'Tis  a  shame,'  says  she,  'that 


A  Madonna  of  Tinkle  Tickle         175 

you've  no  child  o'  your  own!  An'  you  so  wonder- 
ful fond  o'  children  I  I  grieves  for  you,  lad.  It 
fair  breaks  my  heart.' 

"Some  of  the  women  laughed.  An'  this — some- 
how—moved Mary  Mull  t'  vanish  from  that  place. 

"Well,  now,  Polly  Twitter  had  worked  her  mis- 
chief. Mary  Mull  was  never  the  same  after  that. 
She  took  t'  the  house.  No  church  no  more — ^no 
walkin'  the  roads.  She  was  never  seed  abroad.  An' 
she  took  t'  tears  an'  broodin'.  No  ripple  o'  smiles 
no  more— no  song  in  the  kitchen.  She  went  down- 
cast about  the  work  o'  the  house,  an'  she  sot  over- 
much alone  in  the  twilight— an'  she  sighed  too  often 
— an'  she  looked  too  much  at  t'  sea — an'  she  kep' 
silent  too  long — an'  she  cried  too  much  in  the  night. 
She'd  have  nothin'  t'  do  with  children  no  more; 
nor  would  she  let  Tim  Mull  so  much  as  lay  a  hand 
on  the  head  of  a  youngster.  Afore  this,  she'd  never 
fretted  for  a  child  at  all;  she'd  gone  her  way  con- 
tent in  the  world.  But  now — with  Polly  Twitter's 
vaunt  forever  in  her  ears — an'  h;  jnted  by  Tim 
Mull's  wish  for  a  child  of  his  owu — an'  with  the 
laughter  o'  the  old  women  t'  blister  her  pride — 
she  was  like  t'  lose  her  reason.  An'  the  more  it 
went  on,  the  worse  it  got:  for  the  folk  o'  the  Tickle 
knowed  very  well  that  she'd  give  way  t'  envy  an' 
anger,  grievin'  for  what  she  couldn't  have;  an'  she 

knowed  that  they  knowed  an'  that  they  gossiped 

an'  this  was  like  oil  on  a  fire. 


ire 


liirbor  Tales  Down  North 


"  "nm,'  says  she,  one  night,  that  winter,  'will  you 
listen  t'  me?  Thinkin'  things  over,  dear,  I've 
chanced  on  a  cle\'er  thing  t'  do.    'Tis  queer,  though.' 

"  'I'll  not  mind  how  queer,  Mary.' 

"She  snuggled  close  to  un,  then,  an'  smiled.  'I 
wants  t'  go  'way  from  Tinkle  Tickle,'  says  she. 

"  'Away  from  Tinkle  Tickle?' 

"'Don't  say  you'll  not!' 

"  'Why,  Mary,  I  was  bom  here!' 

"  'I  got  t'  go  'way.' 

"  'Wherefore?'  says  he.  '  'Tis  good  fishin'  an'  a 
friendly  harbor.' 

"  'Oh,  oh  I'  says  she.    'I  can't  stand  it  no  more.' 

"  'Mary,  dear,'  says  he,  'there's  no  value  in 
grievin'  so  sore  over  what  can't  be  helped.  Give 
it  over,  dear,  an'  be  happy  again,  like  you  used  t' 
be,  won't  you?  Ah,  now,  Mary,  won't  you  jus' 
try?' 

"'I'm  ashamed!' 

"'Ashamed?'  says  he.  "Yo. ,  Mary?  Why, 
what's  all  this  ?  There  never  was  a  woman  so  dear 
an'  true  as  you.* 

"  'A  childless  woman !    They  mock  me.' 

"  '  'Tis  not  true,'  says  he.    'They ' 

"'Ay,  'tis  true.  They  laugh.  They  whispers 
when  I  pass.    I've  heard  un.' 

"  '  'Tis  not  true,  at  all,'  sj  -s  he.  'They  loves  you 
here  at  Tinkle  Tickle.' 

"'Oh,  no,  Tim!  No,  no!  The  women  scoff. 
An'  I'm  ashamed.    Oh,  I'm  ashamed  f  t)e  seen!    I 


A  Madonna  of  Tinkle  Tickle         177 

can't  stand  it  no  more.  I  got  t'  go  'way.  Won't 
you  take  me,  Tim?' 

"Tim  MuU  looked,  then,  in  her  eyes.  'Ay,'  says 
he,  'I'll  take  you,  dear.' 

"  'Not  for  long,'  says  she.  'Jus'  for  a  year  or 
two.  T'  some  place  where  there's  nobody  about. 
I'll  not  want  t'  stay — so  very  long.' 

"  'So  long  as  you  likes,'  says  he.  'I'm  wantin' 
only  t'  see  you  well  an'  happy  again.  'Tis  a  small 
thing  t'  leave  Tinkle  Tickle  if  we're  t'  bring  about 
that.  We'll  move  down  the  Labrador  in  the  spring 
o'  the  year.' " 


"In  the  spring  o'  the  year  I  helped  Tim  Mull 
load  his  goods  aboard  a  Labradorman  an'  close  his 
cottage  by  Fo'c's'le  Head. 

"  'Spring  weather,  Tumm,'  says  he,  'is  the  time 
for  adventure.  I'm  glad  I'm  goin'.  Why,'  says  he, 
'Mary  is  easin'  off  already.' 

"Foreign  for  me,  then.  Spring  weather;  time 
for  adventure.  Genoa,  this  cruise,  on  a  Twillin- 
gate  schooner,  with  the  first  shore-fish.  A  Bar- 
badoes  cruise  again.  Then  a  v'y'ge  out  China  way. 
Queer  how  the  flea-bite  o'  travel  will  itch!  An' 
so  long  as  it  itched  I  kep'  on  scratchin'.  'Twas 
over  two  years  afore  I  got  a  good  long  breath  o' 
the  fogs  o'  these  parts  again.  An'  by  this  time  a 
miracle  had  happened  on  the  Labrador.  The  good 
Lord  had  surprised  Mary  Mull  at  Come-By-Guess 
Harbor.    Ay,  lads!    At  last  Mary  Mull  had  what 


178 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


she  wanted.  An'  I  had  a  godson.  Tobias  Tunini 
Mull  had  sot  out  on  his  cruise  o'  the  seas  o'  this 
life.  News  o'  all  this  cotched  me  when  I  landed 
at  St.  John's.  'Twas  in  a  letter  from  Mary  Mull 
herself. 

"'Ecodl'  thinks  I,  as  I  read;  'she'll  never  be 
content  until  she  flaunts  that  child  on  the  roads  o' 
Tinkle  Tickle.' 

"An'  'twas  true.  'Twas  said  so  in  the  letter. 
They  was  movin'  back  t'  Tinkle  Tickle,  says  she, 
in  the  fall  o'  the  year,  t'  live  for  good  an'  all.  An' 
as  for  Tim,  says  she,  a  man  jus'  wouldn't  believe 
how  tickled  he  was. 

"Me,  too,  ecodl  I  was  tickled.  Deep  down  in 
my  heart  I  blessed  the  fortune  that  had  come  t' 
Mary  Mull.  An'  I  was  fair  achin'  t'  knock  the 
breath  out  o'  Tim  with  a  clap  on  the  back.  'Queer,' 
thinks  I,  'how  good  luck  may  be  delayed.  An'  the 
longer  luck  waits,'  thinks  I,  'the  better  it  seems  an' 
the  more  'tis  welcome.' 

"'Twas  an  old  letter,  this,  from  Mary;  'twas 
near  a  year  old.  They  was  already  back  at  Tinkle 
Tickle.  An'  so  I  laid  in  a  silver  spoon  an'  a  silver 
mug,  marked  'Toby'  in  fine  fashion,  against  the 
time  I  might  land  at  the  Tickle.  But  I  went  clerk 
on  the  Call  Again  out  o'  Chain  Harbor,  that  spring; 
an'  'twas  not  until  midsummer  that  I  got  the  chance 
t'  drop  in  t'  see  how  my  godson  was  thrivin'.  Lyin' 
here  at  Soap-an'- Water  Harbor,  one  night,  in  stress 
o'  weather,  as  now  we  lies  here,  I  made  up  mind. 


A  Madonna  of  Tinkle  Tickle 


179 


come  what  -night,  that  I'd  run  over  t'  Tinkle  Tickle 
an'  give  tli<  mug  an'  the  spoon  t'  wee  Toby  when 
the  gale  sliuuld  oblige  us.  'J"'y''  thinks  I.  'Well, 
well!  An'  here  it  is  the  seventeenth  o'  the  month. 
ru  drop  in  on  the  nineteenth  an'  help  celebrate  the 
first  birthday  o'  that  child.  'Twill  be  a  joyous 
occasion  by  Fo'c's'le  Head.  An'  I'll  have  the 
schooner  decked  out  in  her  best,  an'  guns  poppin' ; 
an'  I'll  have  Tim  Mull  aboard,  when  'tis  over,  for 
a  small  nip  o'  rum.' 

"But  when  Tim  Mull  come  aboard  at  Tinkle 
Tickle  t'  greet  me,  I  was  fair  aghast  an'  dismayed. 
Never  afore  had  he  looked  so  woebegone  an'  wan. 
Red  eye&  neerin'  out  from  two  black  caves;  face 
all  screwed  with  anxious  thought.  He  made  me 
think  of  a  iish-thief  omehow,  with  a  constable 
comin'  down  with  the  wind ;  an'  it  seemed,  too,  that 
maybe  'twas  my  fish  he'd  stole.  For  he'd  lost  his 
ease;  he  was  full  o'  sighs  an'  starts  an'  shifty 
glances.  An'  there  was  no  htalth  in  his  voice ;  'twas 
but  a  disconsolate  whisper — slinkin'  out  into  the 
light  o'  day.  'Sin  on  his  soul,'  thinks  I.  'He  dwells 
in  black  weather.' 

"  'We  spied  you  from  the  head,'  spys  he — an' 
sight  'It  gives  me  a  turn,  lad,  t'  see  you  so  sud- 
den.   But  I'm  wonderful  glad  /ou've  come.' 

"  'Glad  ?'  says  I.  Tnen  look  glad,  ye  crab !'  An' 
I  fetched  un  a  clap  on  the  l^ck. 

"  'Ouch !'  says  he.    'Don't,  Ttimm  I' 

"  'I  congratu/a/*  you,'  says  I. 


180 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


"'Mm-in?' sayi  he.  'Oh,  ay!  Sure,  lad.'  No 
smile,  mark  you.  An'  he  looked  off  t'  sea,  as  he 
spoke,  an'  then  down  at  his  boots,  like  a  man  in 
shame.  'Ay,'  st/s  he,  brows  down,  voice  gone  low 
an'  timid.  'Congratu/a/«  me,  does  you?  Sure. 
That's  proper — maybe.' 

"  'Nineteenth  o'  the  month,'  says  I. 

"  "That's  God's  truth,  Tumm.' 

"  'An'  I'm  come,  ecod,'  says  I,  't'  celebrate  the 
first  birthday  o'  Tobias  Tumm  Mull !' 

"  'First  birthday,'  says  he.    'That's  God's  truth.' 

"  'Isn't  there  goin'  t'  be  no  celebration?' 

'"Oh,  sure!'  says  he.  'Oh,  my,  yes!  Been 
gettin'  ready  for  days.  An'  I've  orders  t'  fetch 
you  straightway  t'  the  house.  Supper's  laid,  Tumm. 
Four  places  at  the  board  the  night.' 

"  'I'll  get  my  gifts,'  says  I;  'an'  then ' 

"He  put  a  hand  on  my  arm.  'What  gifts?' 
says  he 

"  'Is  you  gone  mad,  Tim  Mull?' 

"'For— the  child?' says  he.  'Oh,  sure!  Mm-m!' 
He  looked  down  at  the  deck.  'I  hopes,  Tumm,' 
says  he,  'that  they  wasn't  so  very — expensive.' 

"  'I'll  spend  what  I  likes,'  says  I,  'on  my  own 
godson.' 

"  'Sure,  you  will !'  says  he.    'But  I  wish  that ' 

"Then  no  more.  He  stuttered— an'  gulped— an' 
give  a  sigh — an'  went  for'ard.  An'  so  I  fetched 
the  spoon  an'  the  mug  from  below,  ''n  a  sweat  o' 
wonder  an'  fear,  an'  we  went  ashore  in  Tim's  punt. 


A  Madonna  of  Tinkle  Tickle        181 

with  Tim  at  glum  u  a  rainy  day  in  the  fall  o'  the 
year." 


"An'  now  you  may  think  that  Mary  Mull  was 
woebegone,  too.  But  she  was  not.  Brown,  plump, 
an'  rosy!  How  she  bloomed!  She  shone  wiUi 
health;  she  twinkled  with  good  spirits.  There  was 
no  sign  o'  shame  upon  her  no  more.  Her  big  brown 
lyes  was  clean  o'  tears.  Her  voice  was  soft  with 
content.  A  sweet  woman,  she  was,  ever,  an'  tender 
with  happiness,  now,  when  she  met  us  at  the  thresh- 
old. I  marveled  '  <  it  a  gift  like  Toby  Mull  could 
work  such  a  chan„e  in  a  woman.  'Tis  queer  how 
we  thrives  when  we  hrves  what  we  wants.  She 
thanked  me  for  the  mug  an'  t':e  spoon  in  a  way 
that  made  me  fair  pity  the  joy  .  r.t  the  little  things 
give  her. 

"'For  Toby!'  says  she.  'For  wee  Toby!  Ah, 
Tumm,  Tumm, — ^how  wonderful  thoughtful  Toby's 
godfather  is  I" 

"She  wiped  her  eyes,  then;  an'  I  wondered  that 
she  should  shed  tears  upon  such  an  occasion — ay, 
wondered,  an'  could  make  nothin'  of  it  at  all. 

"  '  'Tis  a  great  thing,'  says  she,  't'  be  the  mother 
of  a  son.  I  lost  my  pride,  Tumm,  as  you  knows, 
afore  we  moved  down  the  Labrador.  But  now, 
Tumm,— now,  lad,— I'm  jus'  like  other  women. 
I'm  jus'  as  much  a  woman,  Tumm,'  says  she,  'as 
any  woman  o'  Tinkle  Tickle!' 

"With  that  she  patted  my  shoulder  an'  smiled  an' 


182 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


rippled  with  sweet  laughter  an'  fled  t'  the  kitchen 
t'  spread  Toby  Mull's  first  birthday  party. 

"'Tim,'  says  I,  'she've  done  well  since  Toby 
come.' 

"  'Mm-m  ?'  says  he.    'Ay !' — an'  smoked  on. 

"  'Ecod !'  says  I ;  'she's  blithe  as  a  maid  o'  six- 
teen.' 

"  'She's  able  t'  hold  her  head  up,'  says  he.  'Isn't 
afeared  she'll  be  laughed  at  by  the  women  no  more. 
That's  why.    'Tis  simple.' 

"  "You've  lost  heart  yourself,  Tim.' 

"  'Me?  Oh,  no !'  says  he.  'I'm  a  bit  off  my  feed. 
Nothin'  more.  An'  I'm  steadily  improvin'. 
Steadily,  Tumm, — improvin'  steadily.' 

" 'You've  trouble,  Tim?' 

"He  gripped  his  pipe  with  his  teeth  an'  puffed 
hard.  'Ay,'  says  he,  after  a  bit.  'I've  trouble, 
Tumm.    You  got  it  right,  lad.' 

"Jus'  then  Mary  Mull  called  t'  supper.  There 
was  no  time  t'  learn  more  o'  this  trouble.  But  I 
was  bound  an'  determined,  believe  me,  t'  have  Tim 
Mull  aboard  my  craft,  that  night,  an'  fathom  his 
woe.  'Twas  a  thousand  pities  that  trouble  should 
have  un  downcast  when  joy  had  come  over  the  rim 
of  his  world  like  a  new  day." 


"Places  for  four,  ecod!  Tim  Mull  was  right. 
Twas  a  celebration.  A  place  for  Tim — an'  a  place 
for  Mary — an'  a  place  for  me.  An'  there,  too,  was 
a  place  for  Tobias  Tumm  Mull,  a  high  chair, 


A  Madonna  of  Tinkle  Tickle         183 

drawed  close  to  his  mother's  side,  with  arms  waitin' 
t'  clutch  an'  hold  the  little  nipper  so  soon  as  they 
fetched  tm  in.  I  wished  they'd  not  delay.  'Twas 
a  strain  on  the  patience.  I'd  long  wanted — an'  I'd 
come  far — ^t'  see  my  godson.  But  bein'  a  bachelor- 
man  I  held  my  tongue  for  a  bit:  for,  thinks  I,  they're 
washin'  an'  curlin'  the  child,  an'  they'll  fetch  un  in 
when  they're  ready  t'  do  so,  all  spick-an'-span  an' 
polished  like  a  door-knob,  an'  crowin',  too,  the  little 
rooster!  'Twas  a  fair  sight  to  see  Mary  Mull 
smilin'  beyond  the  tea-pot.  'Twas  good  t'  see  what 
she  had  provided.  Cod's-tongues  an'  bacon — with 
new  greens  an'  potatoes — an'  capillaire-berry  pie  an' 
bake-apple  jelly.  'Twas  pretty,  too,  t'  see  the  way 
she  had  arrayed  the  table.  There  was  flowers 
from  the  hills  flung  about  on  the  cloth.  An'  in  the 
midst  of  all — fair  in  the  middle  o'  the  blossoms  an' 
leaves  an'  toothsome  plenty — was  a  white  cake  with 
one  wee  white  taper  bumin'  as  bright  an'  bold  as 
ever  a  candle  twice  the  size  could  manage. 

"  'Mary  Mull,'  says  I,  'I've  lost  patience !' 

"She  laughed  a  little.  'Poor  Tumm!'  sajrs  she. 
'I'm  sorry  your  hunger  had  t'  wait.' 

"  '  'Tis  not  my  hunger.' 

"She  looked  at  me  with  her  brow  wrinkled.  "No?* 
says  she. 

"  'I  wants  t'  see  what  I've  come  t'  see.' 

"  'That's  queer !'  says  she.  'What  you've  come  t' 
see?' 

"  'Woman,'  cries  I,  "fetch  in  that  baby !' 


184 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


•  i; 


"Never  a  word.  Never  a  sound.  Mary  Mull 
drawed  back  a  step— an'  stared  at  me  with  her  eyes 
growin'  wider  an'  wider.  An'  Tim  Mull  was  lookin' 
out  o'  the  window.  An'  I  was  much  amazed  by 
all  this.  An'  then  Mary  Mull  turned  t'  Tim. 
'Tim,'  says  she,  her  voice  slow  an'  low,  'did  you 
not  write  Tumm  a  letter?' 

"Tim  faced  about.  'No,  Mary,'  says  he.  'I — I 
hadn't  no  time — t'  waste  with  writin'.' 

"  'That's  queer,  Tim.' 

"  *I— I— I  forgot.' 

"  'I'm  sorry— Tim.' 

"'Oh,  Mary,  I  didn't  want  to  I'  says  Tim. 
'That's  the  truth  of  it,  dear.    I— I  hated— t'  do  it.' 

"  'An'  you  said  never  a  word  comin'  up  the  hill?' 

'"God's  sake!'  cries  Tim,  like  a  man  beggin' 
mercy,  'I  couldn't  say  a  word  like  that!' 

"Mary  turned  then  t'  me.  'Tumm,*  says  she, 
'little  Toby— is  dead.' 

'"Dead,  Mary!' 

"  'We  didn't  get  much  more  than— jus'  one  good 
look  at  the  little  fellow— afore  he  left  us.' 


"When  I  took  Tim  Mull  aboard  the  Call  Again 
that  night,"  the  tale  ran  on,  "  'twas  all  clear  above. 
What  fog  had  been  hangin'  about  had  gone  off 
with  a  little  wind  from  the  warm  inland  places. 
The  lights  o'  Harbor — warm  lights — gleamed  all 
round  about  Black  hills:  still  water  in  the  lee  o' 
the  rocks.    The  tinkle  of  a  bell  fell  down  from  the 


A  Madonna  of  Tinkle  Tickle         185 

slope  o'  Lookout;  an'  a  maid's  laugh — sweet  as  the 
bell  itself— come  ripplin'  from  the  shadows  o'  the 
road.  Stars  out;  the  little  beggars  kep'  winkin'  an' 
winkin'  away  at  all  the  mystery  here  below  jus' 
as  if  they  knowed  all  about  it  an'  was  sure  we'd 
be  surprised  when  we  come  t'  find  out. 

"  'Tumm,  ol'  shipmate,'  says  Tim  Mull,  'I  got  a 
lie  on  my  soul.' 

"  '  'Tis  a  poor  place  for  a  burden  like  that.' 

"  'I'm  fair  wore  out  with  the  weight  of  it.' 

"  'Will  you  never  be  rid  of  it,  man?' 

"  'Not  an  I  keeps  on  bein'  a  man.' 

"'So,  Tim?' 

"He  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder.  'Is  you  a 
friend  o'  Mary's?'  says  he. 

'Tis  a  thing  you  must  know  without  tellin'.' 

"  'She's  a  woman,  Timim.' 

"  'An'  a  wife.' 

"'Woman  an'  wife,'  says  he,  'an'  I  loves  her 
well.  God  knows!'  The  tinkle  o'  the  bell  on  the 
black  slope  o'  Lookout  caught  his  ear.  He  listened 
—until  the  tender  little  sound  ceased  an'  sleep  fell 
again  on  the  hill.  'Tumm,'  says  he,  then,  all  at 
once,  'there  never  was  no  baby!  She's  deceivin' 
Tinkle  Tickle  t'  save  her  pride!'" 

Tumm  closed  the  book  he  had  read  page  by  page. 


f! 

M 


VII 

THE  LITTLE  NIPPER  O'  HIDE- 
AN'-SEEK  HARBOR 


VII 

THE  LITTLE  NIPPER  O'  HIDE-AN'-SEEK 
HARBOR 

WE  nosed  into  Hide-an'-Seek  Harbor  jus' 
by  chance.  What  come  o'  the  venture  has 
sauce  enough  t'  tell  about  in  any  company 
that  ever  sot  down  in  a  forecastle  of  a  windy  night 
t'  listen  to  a  sentimental  ol'  codger  like  me  spin  his 
yarns.  In  the  early  dusk  o'  that  night,  a  spurt  o' 
foul  weather  begun  t'  swell  out  o'  the  nor'east — 
a  fog  as  thick  as  soup  an'  a  wind  minded  for  too 
brisk  a  lark  at  sea.  Hard  Harry  Hull  'lowed  t'  at 
we  might  jus'  as  well  rvai  into  Hide-an'-Seek  it 
a  night's  lodgin'  in  the  lee  o'  the  hills,  an'  pick  up 
what  iish  we  could  trade  the  while,  there  bein' 
nothin'  t*  gain  by  hangin'  off  shore  an'  splittin' 
the  big  seas  all  night  long  in  the  rough.  'Twas  a 
mean  harbor,  as  it  turned  out — twelve  score  folk, 
ill-spoken  of  abroad,  but  with  what  justice  none  of 
us  knowed;  we  had  never  dropped  anchor  there 
before.  I  was  clerk  o'  the  Robin  Red  Breast  in 
them  days — a  fore-an'-aft  schooner,  tradin'  trinkets 
an'  gBub  for  salt  fish  between  Mother  Burke  o' 
Cape  John  an'  the  Newf 'un'land  ports  o'  the  Straits 

18» 


190 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


o'  Belle  Isle;  an'  Hard  Harry  Hull,  o'  Yesterday 
Cove,  was  the  skipper  o'  the  craft.  Ay,  I  means 
Hard  Harry  hisself — he  that  gained  fame  there- 
after as  a  sealin'  captain  an'  takes  the  Queen  o'  the 
North  out  o'  St.  John's  t'  the  ice  every  spring  o' 
the  year  t'  this  present. 

Well,  the  folk  come  aboard  in  a  twitter  an'  flutter 
o'  curiosity,  flockin'  to  a  new  trader,  o'  course, 
like  young  folk  to  a  spectacle;  an'  they  demanded 
my  prices,  an'  eyed  an'  fingered  my  stock  o'  gee- 
gaws  an'  staples,  an'  they  whispered  an'  stared  an' 
tittered,  an'  they  promised  at  last  t'  fetch  off  a 
quintal  or  two  o'  fish  in  the  momin',  it  might  be, 
an  the  fog  had  blowed  away  by  that  time.  'Twas 
after  dark  afore  they  was  all  ashore  again — all 
except  a  sorry  ol'  codger  o'  the  name  o'  Anthony 
Lot,  who  had  anchored  hisself  in  the  cabin  with 
Skipper  Harry  an'  me  in  expectation  of  a  cup  o' 
tea  or  the  like  o'  that.  By  that  time  I  had  my 
shelves  all  put  t'  rights  an'  was  stretched  out  on 
my  counter,  with  my  head  on  a  roll  o'  factory- 
cotton,  dawdlin'  along  with  my  friendly  ol'  flute. 
I  tooted  a  ballad  or  two — Larboard  Watch  an' 
Dublin  Bay;  an'  my  fingers  bein'  Umber  an'  able, 
then,  I  played  the  weird,  sad  songs  o'  little  Toby 
Farr,  o'  Ha-ha  Harbor,  which  is  more  t'  my  taste, 
mark  you,  than  any  o'  the  fashionable  music  that 
drifts  our  way  from  St.  John's.  Afore  long  I 
cotched  ear  of  a  foot-fall  on  deck — ^tip-toein'  aft, 
soft  as  a  cat ;  an'  I  knowed  that  my  music  had  lured 


The  Little  Nipper 


1»1 


somebody  close  t'  the  cabin  hatch  t*  listen,  as  often 
it  did  when  I  was  meanderin'  away  t'  ease  my 
melancholy  in  the  evenin'. 

"On  deck!"  says  Skipper  Harry.    "Hello,  you  I" 

Nobody  answered  the  skipper's  hail.  I  lowed 
then  that  'twas  a  bashful  child  I  had  lured  with 
my  sad  melody. 

"Come  below,"  the  skipper  bawled,  "whoever  you 
is !    I  say— come  below  I" 

"Isr't  nobody  there,"  says  Anthony  Lot. 

"I  heared  a  step,"  says  I. 

"Me,  too,"  says  Skipper  Harry. 

"Nothin'  o'  no  consequence,"  says  Anthony.  "I 
wouldn't  pay  no  attention  t'  that" 

"Somebody  up  there  in  the  rain,"  says  the 
skipper. 

"Oh,  I  knows  who  'tis,"  says  Anthony.  "  'Tisn't 
nobody  that  amotmts  t'  nothin'  very  much." 

"Ah,  well,"  says  I,  "we'll  have  un  down  here  out 
o'  the  dark  jus'  the  same." 

"On  deck  there!"  says  the  skipper  agaia  ""i'ou 
is  welcome  below,  sir!" 

Down  come  a  lad  in  response  t'  Hard  Harry's 
hail — jus'  a  pallid,  freckled  little  bay-noddie,  with 
a  tow  head  an'  blue  eyes,  risin'  ten  years,  or  there- 
abouts, mostly  skin,  bones  an'  curiosity,  such  as 
you  may  find  in  shoals  in  every  harbor  o'  the  coast. 
He  was  blinded  by  the  cabin  lamp,  an'  brushed  the 
light  out  of  his  eyes ;  an'  he  was  abashed — less  shy 
than  cautious,  however,  mark  you;  an'  I  mind  that 


10« 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


i 


he  shuffled  and  grinned,  none  too  sure  of  his  wel- 
come— halted,  doubtful  an'  beseechin',  like  a  dog 
on  a  dean  kitchen  floor.  I  marked  in  a  sidelong 
glance,  too,  when  I  begun  t'  toot  again,  that  his 
wee  face  was  all  in  a  pucker  o'  bewilderment,  as 
he  listened  t'  the  sad  strains  o'  Toby  Farr's  music, 
jus'  as  though  he  knowed  he  wasn't  able  t'  rede 
the  riddles  of  his  life,  jus'  yet  awhile,  but  would 
be  able  t'  rede  them,  by  an'  by,  when  he  growed 
up,  an'  expected  t'  find  hissclf  in  a  pother  o'  trouble 
when  he  mastered  the  answers.  I  didn't  know  his 
name,  then,  t'  be  sure;  had  I  knowed  it,  as  know 
it  I  did,  afore  the  night  was  over,  I  might  have 
put  down  my  flute,  in  amazement,  an'  stared  an' 
said,  "Well,  well,  well!"  jus'  as  everybody  did, 
no  doubt,  when  they  clapped  eyes  on  that  lad  for 
the  first  time  an'  was  told  whose  son  he  was. 

"What's  that  wee  thing  you're  blowin'?"  says  he. 

"This  here  small  contrivance,  my  son,"  says  I, 
"is  called  a  flute." 

The  lad  scowled. 

"Is  she?"  says  he. 

"Ay,"  says  I,  wondertn'  wherein  I  had  offended 
the  wee  feller;  "that's  the  name  she  goes  by  in  the 
parts  she  hails  from." 

"Hm-m,"  says  he. 

I  seed  that  he  wasn't  thinkin'  about  the  flute — 
that  he  was  broodin'.  All  at  once,  then,  I  learned 
what  'twas  about. 

"I  isn't  your  son,"  says  he. 


The  Little  Nipper 


19S 


"That'»  true,"  wyi  I.    "What  about  it?" 

"Well,  you  called  me  your  son,  didn't  you?" 

"Oh,  well,"  says  I  "I  didn't  mean " 

"Whn  you  do  it  for?" 

'Twas  a  demand.  The  wee  lad  was  stirred  an' 
earnest.  An' why?  I  was  troubled.  'Twas  a  queer 
thing  altogether.  I  seed  that  a  man  must  walk 
warily  in  answer  lest  he  bruise  a  wound.  'Twas 
plain  that  there  was  a  deal  o'  deUcate  mystery  be- 
neath an'  beyond. 

"Answer  me  fair,"  says  I,  in  bantfr;  "wouldn't 
a  man  like  me  make  a  fair-t'-middUn'  pa  for  a  lad 
like  you?" 

That  startled  un. 

"I'd  wager  no  fish  on  it,  sir,"  says  he,  "afore  I 
learned  more  o'  your  quality." 

"Well,  then,"  says  I,  "you've  but  a  dull  outiit 
o'  manners." 

He  flashed  a  saucy  grin  at  me.  'Twas  agreeable 
enough.  I  deserved  it.  An'  'twas  made  mild  with 
a  twinkle  o'  humor. 

"I've  pricked  your  pride,  sir,"  says  he.  "I'm 
sorry." 

"Answer  me,  then,  in  a  mannerly  way,"  says  I, 
"Come  now  I  Would  I  pass  muster  as  a  pa  for  a 
lad  like  you  ?" 

He  turned  solemn  an'  earnest. 

"You  wish  you  was  my  pa?"  says  he. 

"  'Tis  a  sudden  question,"  says  I,  "an'  a  poser." 

"You  doesn't,  then?" 


194 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


I 


"I  didn't  ny  that,"  lajn  I.  "What  you  wiihin' 
roundf?" 

"I  isn't  wishin'  nothin'  at  all  about  it,"  Mys  he. 
"All  I  really  wants  to  know  is  why  you  called  me 
your  son  when  I  isn't  no  such  thing." 

"An'  you  wants  an  answer  t'  that?" 

"I'd  be  grateful,  sir." 

Skipper  Harry  got  the  notion  from  all  this  talk, 
mixed  with  the  eager,  wistful  look  o'  the  lad,  as 
he  searched  me  with  questions,  t'  ease  the  v/otu^rr 
that  gripped  an'  hurt  un,  whatever  it  was — Skipper 
Harry  got  the  notion  that  the  lad  had  no  father  at 
all  that  he  knowed  of,  an'  that  he  sorrowed  with 
shame  on  that  account. 

"I  wish  you  was  my  son,"  says  he,  t'  hearten 
un.    "Danged  if  I  don't!" 

The  lad  flashed  'round  on  Skipper  Hany  an' 
stared  at  un  with  his  eyes  poppin'. 

"What  you  say  jus'  then?"  says  he. 

"You  beared  what  I  said." 

"Say  it  again,  sir,  for  my  pleasure." 

"I  will,"  says  the  skipper,  "an'  glad  to.  I  says 
I  wish  you  belonged  t'  me." 

"Is  you  sure  about  that?" 

Skipper  Harry  couldn't  very  well  turn  back  then. 
Nor  was  he  the  man  t'  withdraw.  An'  he  didn't 
reef  a  rag  o'  the  canvas  he  had  spread  in  his  kindly 
fervor. 

"I  is,"  says  he.    "Why?" 


The  little  Nipper 


W 


) 


"It  maket  me  wonder.    What  if  you  wu  my  |»? 
Eh?    What  if  you  jus'  happened  t'  be?" 
"I'd  be  glad.    That's  what." 


"That'! 


r!" 


queer! 

"Nothin'  queer  about  it." 

"Ah-hal"  says  the  lad;  "'tis  wonderful  queer P' 
He  cocked  his  head  an'  peered  at  the  skipper  like 
an  inquisitive  bird.  "Nobody  never  said  nothin' 
like  that  t'  me  afore,"  says  he.  "What  you  wish 
I  was  your  son  for?    Eh?" 

"You  is  clever  an'  good  enough,  isn't  you?" 

"Maybe  I  is  clever.  Maybe  I'm  good,  too.  I'll 
not  deny  that  I'm  both.  What  I  wants  t'  know, 
though,  is  what  you  wants  me  for?" 

"I'd  be  proud  o'  you." 

"What  for?" 

Skipper  Harry  lost  r-tiente. 

"Don't  pester  me  no  more,"  says  he.  "I've  no 
lad  o'  my  own.    That's  reason  enough." 

The  wee  feller  looked  the  skipper  over  from  his 
shock  o*  red  hair  to  his  sea-boots,  at  leisure,  an' 
turned  doleful  with  pity. 

"My  duty,  sir,"  says  he.  "I'm  sore  an'  sorry  for 
you." 

"Don't  you  trouble  about  that." 

"You  sees,  sir,"  says  the  lad,  "I  can't  help  you 
none.    I  got  a  pa  o'  my  own." 

"That's  good,"  says  the  skipper.  "I'm  glad  o' 
that." 

"Moreover,  sir,"  says  the  lad,  "I'm  content  with 


196 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


the  pa  I  got  Yes,  sir— I'm  wonderful  proud  o'  my 
pa,  an'  I  'low  my  pa's  wonderful  proud  o'  me,  if 
the  truth  was  knowed.  I  'low  not  many  lads  on 
this  coast  is  got  such  a  wonderful  pa  as  I  got." 

"No?"  says  I.    "That's  grand!" 

"No,  sir-ee !    Is  they,  Anthony  Lot  ?" 

Anthony  Lot  begun  t'  titter  an'  chuckle.  I 
fancied  he  cast  a  wink.  'Twas  a  broad  joke  he 
was  playin'  with,  whatever  an'  all ;  an'  I  wished  I 
knowed  what  amused  the  dolt. 

"You  got  it  right,  Sammy,"  says  he. 

The  lad  shpped  his  knee.  "Yes,  sir-ee!"  says 
he.    "You  jus' bet  I  got  it  right!" 

"You  got  a  wonderful  ma,  too?"  says  I. 

"All  I  got  is  a  wonderful  pa,"  says  he.  "My 
ma  died  long,  long  ago.  Didn't  she,  Anthony  Lot? 
An'  my  pa's  sailin'  foreign  parts  jus'  now.  Isn't 
he,  Anthony  Lot?  I  might  get  a  letter  from  un 
by  the  next  mail-boat.  No  tellin'  when  a  letter  will 
come.  Anytime  at  all — ^maybe  next  boat.  An'  my 
pa  might  turn  up  here  hisself.  Mightn't  he,  Anthony 
Lot?  Might  turn  up  right  here  in  Hide-an'-Seek 
Harbor  without  givin'  me  the  least  word  o'  wamin'. 
Any  day  at  all,  too.    Eh,  Anthony  Lot?" 

"Skipper  of  a  steam  vessel  in  the  South  American 
trade,"  says  Anthony. 

"Any  day  at  all?" 

"Plyin'  out  o'  Rio,  I'm  told." 

"Eh,  Anthony  Lot?    Any  day  at  all?" 

Anthony  grinned  at  me  in  a  way  I'd  no  taste 


The  Little  Nipper 


107 


for.  "Any  day  at  all,"  says  he  t'  the  lad.  "You 
got  it  right,  Sammy." 

"Or  Sandy  Spot  is  fetchin'  me  up,"  says  the  lad, 
"  'til  my  pa  comes  home.  It  don't  cost  my  pa  a 
copper,  neither.  01'  Sandy  Spot  is  fetchin'  me  up 
jus'  for  my  pa's  sake.  That's  what  comes  o'  havin' 
a  pa  like  the  pa  I  got.    Don't  it,  Anthony  Lot?" 

"I  'low  so,  Sammy;  jus'  for  your  pa's  sake — 
an'  the  Gov'ment  stipend,  too." 

What  slur  was  hid  in  that  sly  whisper  about  the 
Gov'ment  stipend  escaped  the  lad. 

"Ah-ha!"  he  crowed. 

I'm  accustomed  t'  pry  into  the  hearts  o'  folks. 
With  no  conscience  at  all  I  eavesdrops  on  feelin's. 
'Tis  a  passion  an'  fixed  practice.  An'  now  my 
curiosity  clamored  for  satisfaction.  I  was  sus- 
picious an'  I  was  dumbfounded. 

"You  might  put  more  heart  in  your  crowin'," 
says  I. 

The  lad  turned  on  me  with  his  breath  caught  an' 
his  wee  teeth  as  bare  as  a  wolf's. 

"What  you  say  that  for?"  says  he. 

"'Tis  a  pleasure,"  says  I,  "t'  stir  your  wrath 
in  your  pa's  behalf.  'Tis  a  pretty  sight  t'  see.  I 
enjoys  it.  In  these  modem  times,"  says  I,  "  'tis 
not  often  I  finds  a  lad  as  proud  of  his  pa  as  you. 
My  duty  t'  you,  sir,"  says  I.    "I  praise  yott" 

The  lad  looked  t'  the  skipper. 

"My  compUments,"  says  Hard  Harry,  enjoyin' 
the  play.    "Me,  too.    I  praise  you  highly." 


>!i« 


198 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


"Whew !"  says  the  lad.  "Such  manners  abash  me. 
There's  no  answer  on  the  tip  o'  my  tongue.  I'm 
ashamed  o'  my  wit." 

Skipper  Harry  chuckled.  An'  I  laughed.  An' 
the  wee  lad  laughed,  too.  An'  dull  Anthony  Lot, 
in  a  fuddle  o'  stupidity  an'  wonder,  stared  from 
one  t'  the  other,  not  knowin'  whether  t'  grin  or  com- 
plain of  our  folly.  There  was  foul  weather  with- 
out— wind  in  the  riggin',  blowin'  in  from  the  sea 
an'  droppin'  down  over  the  hills,  an'  there  was  the 
patter  o'  black  rain  on  the  roof  o'  the  cabin.  'Tis 
a  matter  for  large  surprise,  it  may  be,  that  growed 
men,  like  Hard  Harry  an'  me,  should  find  interest 
an'  laughter  in  a  gossip  like  that.  Yet  'tis  dull  times 
on  a  tradin'  schooner,  when  trade's  done  for  the 
day,  an'  the  night's  dismal  an'  sodden  with  rain; 
an'  with  a  fire  in  the  bogie-stove  aboard,  an'  no 
lively  maids  t'  draw  un  ashore  to  a  dance  or  a  scoff 
o'  tea  an'  cakes  in  a  strange  harbor,  a  man  seizes 
the  distraction  that  seeks  un  out,  and  makes  the 
best  of  it  that  he  can.  More  than  that,  an'  deep 
an'  beyond  it,  'twas  entertainment,  an'  a  good  meas- 
ure of  it,  that  had  come  blinkin'  down  the  deck. 
Afore  we  had  time  or  cause  for  complaint  o'  the 
botheration  o'  childish  company,  we  was  involved 
in  a  brisk  passage  o'  talk,  which  was  no  trouble  at 
all,  but  sped  on  an'  engaged  us  without  pause.  There 
was  that  about  the  wee  lad  o'  Hide-an'-Seek  Har- 
bor, too,  as  a  man  sometimes  encounters,  t'  com- 


The  Little  Nipper 


109 


mand  our  interest  an'  t'  compel  our  ears  an'  our 
tongues  t'  their  labor. 

With  that,  then,  the  lad's  tongue  broke  loose  an' 
ran  riot  in  his  father's  praise.  I  never  heared  such 
wild  boastin'  in  all  my  travels  afore — eyes  alight 
with  pleasure,  as  I  thought  at  the  time,  an'  tow 
head  waggin'  with  wonder  an'  pride,  an'  lips  curlin' 
in  contempt  for  the  fathers  of  all  the  wide  world 
in  comparison;  an'  had  not  the  lad  been  too  tender 
in  years  for  grave  blame,  too  lonely  an'  forlorn  for 
punishment,  an'  of  a  pretty  loyalty  to  his  father's 
fame  and  quality,  pretty  enough  to  excuse  the  pre- 
posterous tales  that  he  told,  I  should  have  spanked 
un  warmly,  then  an'  there,  an'  bade  un  off  ashore 
to  cleanse  his  wee  tongue  o'  the  false  inventions. 
There  was  no  great  deed  fiat  his  father  hadn't 
accomplished,  no  virtue  he  lacked,  no  piety  he  had 
not  practiced;  an'  with  every  reckless,  livin'  boast 
o'  the  man's  courage  an'  cleverness,  his  strength  an' 
vast  adventures,  no  matter  how  far-fetched,  went 
a  tale  to  enlighten  an'  prove  it.  The  sea,  the  ice, 
the  timber— 'twas  all  the  same;  the  father  o'  this 
lad  was  bolder  an'  wiser  an'  more  gifted  with  graces 
than  the  fathers  of  all  other  lads— had  endured  more 
an'  escaped  more.  So  far  past  belief  was  the  great 
tales  the  lad  told  that  'twas  pitiable  in  the  end; 
an'  I  wasn't  quite  sure — ^bein'  a  sentimental  man — 
whether  t'  guffaw  or  t'  blink  with  grief. 

"You  is  spinnin'  a  wonderful  lot  o'  big  yams 


soo 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


for  a  wee  lad  like  you,"  says  Skipper  Harry.  "Aw, 
now,  an  I  was  you,"  says  he,  in  kindness,  "I 
wouldn't  carry  on  so  careless." 

"I  knows  other  yams." 

"You  s'prise  me !" 

"I  could  startle  you  more." 

"Where'd  you  learn  all  them  yams?" 

"I  been  told  'em." 

"Your  pa  tell  you?" 

The  lad  laughed.  "Dear  man,  no !"  says  he.  "I 
never  seed  my  pa  in  all  my  life." 

"Never  seed  your  pa  in  all  your  life!  Well, 
now!" 

"Why,  no,  sir!    Didn't  you  know  that?" 

"You  didn't  tell  me." 

"I  didn't  think  I  had  t'  tell  you.  I  thought 
ev'body  in  the  world  knowed  that  much  about  me." 

"Well,  well !"  says  the  skipper.  "Never  seed  your 
pa  in  all  your  life!  Who  told  you  all  them  yams 
then?" 

"Ev'body." 

"Oh!  Ev'body,  eh?  I  sees.  Jus'  so.  You  like 
t'  hear  yams  about  your  pa?" 

"Well,"  says  the  lad,  "I  'low  I  certainly  do! 
Wouldn't  you — if  you  had  a  pa  like  me?" 

'Twas  too  swift  a  question. 

"Me?"  says  Skipper  Harry,  nonplused. 

"Ay— tell  me!" 

Skipper  Harry  was  a  kind  man  an'  a  foolish  one. 


The  Little  Nipper 


201 


"I  bet  ye  I  would!"  says  he,  "I'd  fair  crave  'em. 
I'd  pester  the  harbor  with  questions  about  my  pa." 

"That's  jus'  what  I  does  del"  says  the  lad. 
"Doesn't  I,  Anthony  Lot?" 

"You  got  it  right,  Sammy,"  says  Anthony.  "You 
can't  hear  too  much  about  your  wonderful  pa." 

"You  hears  a  lot,  Sammy,"  says  the  skipper. 

"Oh,  ev'body  knows  my  pa,"  says  the  lad,  "an' 
ev'body  spins  me  yams  about  un." 

"Jus'  so,"  says  the  skipper,  gone  doleful.  "I 
sees." 

"Talkin'  about  my  pa,"  says  the  lad,  tumin'  t' 
me,  then,  "I  bet  ye  he  could  blow  one  o'  them  little 
black  things  better  'n  you." 

"He  could  play  the  flute,  too !"  says  I. 

"Well,  I  never  been  tol'  so,"  says  the  lad;  "but 
'twould  not  s'prise  me  if  he  could.  Could  he, 
Anthony  Lot?— -could  my  pa  play  the  flute?" 

"He  could." 

"Better  'n  this  man?" 

"Hoosh!    Ay,  that  he  could!" 

"There!"  says  the  lad.    "I  tol'  you  so!" 

Anthony  Lot  turned  his  br.ck  on  the  lad  an'  cast 
a  wink  at  me,  an'  grinned  an'  winked  again,  an' 
winked  once  more  t'  Skipper  Harry;  an'  then  he 
told  us  all  as  silly  an'  bitter  cruel  a  whopper  as 
ever  I  he'  -ed  in  all  my  travels.  "Once  upon  a 
time.  Sir  johnnie  McLeod,  him  that  was  Gov'nor 
o*  Newf'un'land  in  them  days,  sailed  this  coast  in 
the  Gov'ment  yacht,"  says  he;  "an'  when  he  come 


202 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


)    i 


near  by  Hide-an'-Seek  Harbor,  he  says:  'I've  in- 
spected this  coast,  an'  I've  seed  the  mines  at  Tilt 
Cove,  an'  the  whale  fishery  at  Sop's  Arm,  an'  the 
mission  at  Battle  Harbor, ;  a'  my  report  o'  the  vron- 
ders  virill  mightily  tickle  His  Gracious  Majesty  the 
King;  but  what  I  have  most  in  mind,  an'  what 
lies  nearest  my  heart,  an'  what  I  have  looked  for- 
ward to  most  of  all,  is  t'  sit  down  in  my  cabin, 
at  ease,  an'  listen  to  a  certain  individual  o'  Hide- 
an'-Seek  Harbor,  which  I  beared  about  in  England, 
play  on  the  flute.'  Well,  the  Gov'ment  yacht  dropped 
anchor  in  Hide-an'-Seek,  Sammy,  an'  lied  the  night 
jus'  where  this  here  tradin'  schooner  lies  now ;  an' 
when  Sir  Johnnie  McLeod  had  beared  your  father 
play  on  the  flute,  he  says:  'The  man  c^n  play  on 
the  flute  better  'n  anybody  in  the  whole  world! 
I'm  glad  I've  lived  t'  see  this  day.  I'll  see  to  it 
that  he  has  a  gold  medal  from  His  Gracious  Majesty 
the  King  for  this  night's  work.' " 

"Did  my  pa  get  the  gold  medal  from  His  Gracious 
Majesty?" 

"He  did,  in  due  course." 

"Ah-ha!"  crowed  the  lad  t'  Skipper  Harry.  "I 
tol'  you  so!" 

Skipper  Harry's  face  hail  gone  hard.  He  looked 
Anthony  Lot  in  the  eye  until  Anthony  begun  t' 
shift  with  uneasiness  an'  shame. 

"Anthony,"  says  he,  "does  that  sort  o'  thing  give 
you  any  real  pleasure?" 

"What  sort  o'  thing?" 


The  Little  Nipper 


80S 


"Tellin'  a  yam  like  that  to  a  wee  lad  like  he?" 

"  'Twasn't  nothin'  wrong." 

"Nothin'  wrong! — t'  bait  un  so?" 

"Jus'  a  bit  o'  sport." 

"Sorry  sport!" 

"Ah,  well,  he've  growed  used  to  it." 

T'  this  the  lad  was  listenin'  like  a  caribou  o'  the 
barrens  scentin'  peril. 

"  'Twas  a  naughty  thing  t'  do,  ye  ol'  crab!"  says 
the  skipper  t'  Anthony  Lot. 

The  lad  struck  in. 

"Isn't  it  true?"  says  he. 

Skipper  Harry  cotched  the  quiver  o'  doubt  an' 
fear  in  his  voice  an'  was  warned  jus'  in  time.  There 
was  jus'  one  tiling  t'  say. 

"True?"  says  the  skipper.  "Sure,  'tis  true !  Who 
doubts  it?" 

"Not  me,"  says  Anthony. 

"Ye  hadn't  better !"  says  the  skipper. 

"You  bet  ye  'tis  true !"  says  I.  "I've  beared  that 
selfsame  tale  many  a  time  afore." 

"Sarimy,  my  son,"  says  the  skipper,  "who  is 
your  father  anyhow?" 

The  lad  fair  glowed  with  pride,  as  it  seemed  t' 
me  then.  Up  went  his  head — out  went  his  wee 
chest;  an'  his  eyes  went  wide  an'  shinin',  an'  he 
smiled,  an'  the  blood  o'  pride  flushed  his  cheeks  red. 

"I'm  John  Scull's  son!"  says  he. 

Anthony  Lot  throwed  back  his  head  an'  shot  a 
laugh  through  his  musty  beard. 


'illi  i 


if '  ■< 


<r,l 


t04  Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

"Now,"  says  he,  "d'ye  think  it  comical?" 

Skipper  Harry  shook  his  head. 

"God,  no  I"  says  he. 

"What's  the  matter?"  says  the  lad.  His  mouth 
was  twitchin'.  'Twas  awful  t' behold.  'Tis  worse 
when  I  think  o'  the  whole  truth  of  his  state. 
"WTiat's— what's  the  m-m-raatter?"  says  he. 
"Wh-wh-what's  the  matter?" 

Skipper  Harry  an'  me  jus'  sot  there  starin'  at  un. 
John  Scull's  son!  Everybody  in  Newf'un'land 
knowed  all  about  John  Scull  o'  Hide-an'-Seek 
Harbor. 

'Twas  plain— the  whole  tale  o'  the  lad's  little  life. 
In  all  my  travels  afore  I  h-i  never  encountered  a 
child  in  a  state  as  woeful  an'  helplc^:,  -s  that.    In 
the  beginnin',  no  doubt,  'twas  needful  t'  lie  t'  un— 
a  baby,  no  more,  bewildered  by  a  mystery  that  he 
had  now  forgot  all  about,  an'  plyin'  folk  witi^  ques- 
tions in  ease  o'  the  desolation  in  which  his  father 
had  plunged  un.    The  folk  o'  Hide-an'-Seek  Harbor 
had  lied  in  kindness  at  first— 'twas  all  plain;  an' 
in  the  drift  o'  the  years  since  then,  little  by  little, 
more  an'  more,  with  less  conscience  all  the  while, 
they  had  lied  for  their  own  amusement.    Look  you, 
the  lad  had  boasted,  no  doubt,  an'  was  a  comical' 
sight  when  he  did— chest  out  an'  face  scovlin'  an' 
flushed,  as  we  had  seed  it  that  night,  an'  his  wee 
legs  spread  an'  his  way  growed  loud,  whilst  he 
declared  the  virtues  of  a  father  whose  fortune  was 


The  Little  Nipper 


t05 


knowed  to  them  all,  young  an'  old  alike,  an'  whose 
fate  was  a  by-word.  In  the  end,  I'm  thinkin',  'twas 
a  cherished  sport,  followed  by  the  folk  o'  the  harbor 
an'  all  strangers,  thus  f  tell  wild  tales  t'  the  lad, 
an'  the  wilder  the  more  comical,  of  his  father's 
great  deeds;  an'  'twas  a  better  sport  still,  an*  far 
more  laughable,  t'  gather  'round  un,  at  times,  for 
their  own  amusement  an'  the  entertainment  o' 
travelers,  an'  hear  un  repeat,  with  his  own  small 
inventions  t'  season  them,  the  whoppin'  yams  they 
had  teached  un  t'  believe. 

Skipper  Harry  was  married  to  a  maid  o'  Linger 
Tickle,  an'  was  jus'  a  average,  kindly  sort  o'  man, 
with  a  heart  soft  enough,  as  the  hearts  o'  most 
men  is,  t'  be  touched  by  the  woes  o'  children,  an* 
the  will  t'  act  rashly  in  relief  o'  them,  come  what 
might  of  it  by  an'  by,  if  'twas  no  hard  riddle  t' 
know  what  t'  do  at  once.  Sailin'  our  coast,  I  had 
beared  un  declare,  poundin'  it  out  on  the  forecastle 
table,  that  the  man  who  debated  a  deed  o'  kindness 
with  his  own  heart,  or  paused  t'  consider  an'  act 
o'  punishment  in  company  with  his  own  reason, 
shamed  his  manhood  thereby,  an'  fetched  his  soul 
into  jeopardy.  They  called  un  Hard  Harry,  true 
enough;  but  'twas  not  because  his  disposition  was 
harsh — 'twas  because  he  was  a  hard  driver  at  sea 
an'  put  the  craft  he  was  master  of  to  as  much  I?bor 
as  she  could  bear  at  all  times.  Knowin'  the  breed 
o'  the  man  as  well  as  I  knowed  it,  I  could  tell  that 
he  was  troubled,  whether  by  wrath  or  grief,  there 


ill 


206 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


iil 


was  no  knowin'  which,  an'  would  explode  one  way 
or  t'other  afore  long.  He  must  on  deck  for  a 
fresh  breath  o'  the  wet  night,  says  he,  or  smother; 
an'  he  would  presently  drop  below  again,  says  he, 
in  command  of  his  temper  an'  restlessness.  I  seed, 
too,  that  the  lad  wished  t'  follow — he  watched  the 
skipper  up  the  ladder,  like  a  doubtful  dog,  an'  got 
up  an'  wagged  hisself ;  but  he  thought  better  o'  the 
intrusion  an'  set  sail  on  another  vast  whopper  in 
praise  o'  the  father  whose  story  we  knowed. 

When  Skipper  Harry  come  below  again,  he 
clapped  a  hand  on  Anthony  Lot's  shoulder  in  a  way 
that  jarred  the  man. 

"Time  you  was  stowed  away  in  bed,"  says  he. 

Anthony  took  the  hint  "I  was  jus'  'lowin'  t' 
go  ashore,"  says  he.    "You  comin'  along,  Sammy?" 

"I  don't  know,"  says  Sammy.  "I  isn't  quite  tired 
of  it  here  as  yet." 

"Well,  now,  I  calls  that  complimentary!"  says 
the  skipper ;  "an'  I'm  inclined  to  indulge  you.  What 
say,  Tumm?  Mm-m?  What  say  t' this  here  young 
gentleman?" 

"I'm  fond  o'  company,"  says  I,  "if  'tis  genteel." 

"Come,  now,  be  candid!"  says  the  skipper.  "Is 
you  suited  with  the  company  you  is  offered?" 

"'Tis  genteel  enough  for  me." 

"Aw,  you  is  jus'  pokin'  fun  at  me,"  says  the  lad. 
"I  don't  like  it." 

"I  is  not  neither!"  says  I. 

"I— I  wish  I  could  stay,  sir,"  says  Sammy  t' 


The  Little  Nipper  MT 

the  skipper.  "Jus',  sir— jut'  for  a  little  small  while. 
I— I " 

'Twas  a  plea.  Skipper  Harry  cocked  his  ear  in 
wonder.  It  seemed  t'  me  that  the  lad  had  a  purpose 
in  mind. 

"Well?"  says  the  skipper. 

The  lad  begun  t'  pant  with  a  question,  an'  then, 
in  a  fright,  t'  lick  his  lips. 

"Well,  sir,"  says  he,  "I  wants  t*  ask— I— I  jus' 
got  the  notion  t' " 

"Anthony,"  says  the  skipper,  "your  punt  is 
frayin'  the  painter  with  eagerness  t'  be  off  t'  bed." 

With  that  Anthony  went  ashore. 

"Now,  son,"  says  the  skipper,  "they're  havin'  a 
wonderful  mug-up  in  the  forecastle.  You  go  for- 
'ard  an'  have  a  cup  o'  tea.  'Tis  a  cup  o*  tea  that 
you  wants,  not  the  company  o'  me  an'  Mister  Tumm, 
an'  I  knows  it.  You  have  a  little  scoff  with  the 
men,  my  son,  an'  then  one  o'  the  lads. will  put 
you  ashore.  You  might  come  back  for  breakfast, 
too,  an  you  is  hungry  again  by  that  time." 

"I'd  as  lief  stay  here,"  says  Sammy. 

"Oh,  no,"  says  the  skipper;  "you  go  for'ard  an' 
have  a  nice  cup  o'  tea  with  ..  whole  lot  o'  white 
sugar  in  it." 

"I'd  like  that." 

"Sure,  you  would!" 

"Is  1 1'  have  as  much  sugar  as  I  wants?" 

"You  is,  my  son." 


SOS  Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

"May  I  tell  the  cook,  sir,  that  'tii  by  your  leave 
an'  orders?" 
"Ay,  my  ion." 

The  lad  made  t'  go,  with  a  duck  of  his  head  t' 
the  skipper;  but  then  he  stopped  an'  faced  about. 
"Coin*  t'  turn  in?"  says  he. 
"No,  son." 

"By  your  leave,  then,"  says  the  lad,  "I'll  oe  oack 
t'  bid  you  good  night  an'  thank  you  afore  I  goes 
ashore." 
"That's  polite,  my  son.    Pray  do." 
By  this  time  the  lad  was  skippin'  up  t'  the  deck 
an'  Hard  Harry  was  scowlin'  with  the  trouble  o' 
some  anxious  thought. 
"Son!"  says  the  ^pper. 
The  lad  turned. 
"Sir?" 

"An  I  was  you,"  says  Skipper  Harry,  "I  wouldn't 
tell  the  lads  up  for'ard  what  my  name  was." 
"You  wouldn't  f  ' 
The  skipper  shook  his  head. 
"Not  me,"  says  he. 
"That's  queer." 
"Anyhow,  I  wouldn't." 
"Why  not,  sir?" 

"Oh,  well,  nothin'  much,"  says  the  skipper.  "You 
don't  have  to,  do  you?  I  'low  I  jus'  wouldn't  do  it. 
That's  all." 

The  lad  jumped  into  the  cabin  an'  shook  his  wee 
fist  in  the  skipper's  face.    "No,  I  don't  have  to," 


The  Little  Nipper 


809 


tm 


dt' 
t. 


lack 

leek 


In't 


ou 
it. 


vee 

0. 


says  he  in  a  fury ;  "but  I  wants  to,  an'  I  will  if  I 
wants  to!  I'm  not  ashamed  o'  die  name  I  wear!" 
An'  he  leaped  up  the  ladder;  an'  when  he  had 
reached  the  deck,  he  turned  an'  thrust  his  head 
back,  an'  he  called  down  t'  the  skipper,  "Forgive 
my  fault,  sir  I"  An'  then  we  heated  his  feet  pattei: 
on  the  deck  as  he  run  for'ard. 

Well,  well,  well,  now,  'tis  a  sentimental  tale, 
truly!  I  fears  'twill  displease  the  majority — this 
long  yam  o'  the  little  mystery  o'  Hide-an-Seek 
Harbor.  'Tis  a  remarkable  thing,  I  grant,  t'  thrust 
a  wee  lad  like  Sammy  Scull  so  deep  into  the  notice 
o'  folk  o'  parts  an'  prominence;  an'  it  may  be, 
though  I  doubt  it,  th?':  little  codgers  like  he,  snarled 
up  in  the  coil  o'  their  small  lives,  win  no  favor 
with  the  wealthy  an'  learned.  I've  told  the  tale 
more  than  once,  never  t'  folk  o'  conseque^-:e,  as 
now,  occupied  with  affairs  o'  great  gravity,  with 
no  time  t'  waste  in  the  company  o'  far-away  little 
shavers — I've  never  told  the  tale  t'  such  folk  at 
all,  but  only  to  the  lowly  of  our  coast,  with  the 
forecastle  bogie  warm  of  a  windy  night,  an'  the 
schooner  hangin'  on  in  the  rain  off  the  cliffs,  or  with 
us  all  settled  afore  a  kitchen  fire  in  a  cottage  ashore, 
of  a  winter's  night,  which  is  the  most  favoral:'  •  lour, 
I've  found  out,  for  the  tellin'  o'  tales  like  mine; 
an'  the  folk  for  whose  pleasure  I've  spun  this  yarn 
have  thought  the  fate  o'  wee  Sammy  worth  their 
notice  an'  sighs,  an'  have  thrilled  me  with  wonder 


ii 


210 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


an'  praise.  I'm  well  warned  that  gentlefolk  t"  the 
s'uth'ard  must  have  love  in  their  tales  an'  be 
charmed  with  great  deeds  in  its  satisfaction;  but 
I'm  a  skillful  teller  o'  tales,  as  I've  been  told  in 
high  quarters,  an'  as  I've  good  reason  t'  believe, 
indeed,  with  my  own  common  sense  and  discretion 
f  clap  me  on  the  back,  an'  so  I'll  speed  on  with 
my  sentimental  tale  to  its  endin',  whether  happy 
or  not,  an'  jus'  damn  the  scoffers  in  private. 

"The  little  nipper,"  says  the  skipper.  "His  fist 
tapped  the  tip  o'  my  nosel" 

I  laughed  outright  at  that.  'Twas  a  good  re- 
bound from  the  start  I  had  had. 

"What  stirred  his  wrath?" 

"It  might  be  one  thing  that  I  knows  of,"  says 
I,  "an'  it  might  be  another  that  I  could  guess." 

"I'm  puzzled,  Tumm." 

"As  for  me,  I've  the  eyes  of  a  hawk,  sir,"  says 
I,  "with  which  t'  search  a  mystery  like  this." 

"That  you  has !"  says  he. 

I  was  fond  o'  Skipper  Harry.  He  was  a  per- 
ceivin'  man.  An'  I've  no  mind  t'  withhold  the 
opinion  I  maintain  t'  that  effect. 

"You've  fathomed  the  lad's  rage  ?"  says  he. 

"An  I  was  still  shrewder,"  says  I,  "I'd  trust  a 
surmise  an'  lay  a  wager  that  I  was  right." 

"What  do  you  think?" 

"I've  two  opinions.  They  balance.  I'll  hold 
with  neither  'til  I'm  sure  o'  the  one." 

"Not  ashamed  of  his  name!"  says  the  skipper. 


The  Little  Nipper 


211 


"la!  'Twas  a  queer  boast  t'  make.  He'll  be 
BshaincJ  of  hfs  name  soon  enough.  'Tis  a  wonder 
they've  not  told  un  the  truth  afore  this.  What  you 
think,  Tumm?  How  have  they  managed  t'  keep 
the  truth  from  un  until  now?" 

"They  think  un  comical,"  says  I ;  "they  keeps  un 
ignorant  t'  rouse  their  laughter  with." 

"Ay,"  says  the  skipper;  "he've  been  fattened  like 
a  goose  in  a  cage.  They've  made  a  sad  fool  of  un 
these  last  few  years.  What  boastin'!  'Tis  stupid. 
He've  growed  old  enough  t'  know  better,  Tumm. 
'Tis  jus'  disgustin'  t'  hear  a  big  boy  like  he  mouth 
such  a  shoal  o'  foolish  yarns.  An'  he've  not  the 
least  notion  that  they're  not  as  true  as  Gospel  an' 
twice  as  entertainin'." 

"So?"  says  I.    "Where's  my  flute?" 

"There'll  come  a  time  afore  long  when  he'll  find 
out  all  of  a  sudden  about  his  pa.    Whew !" 

I  found  my  flute  an'  stretched  myself  out  on  the 
counter  t'  draw  comfort  from  tootin'  it. 

"Somebody'U  blunder,"  says  the  skipper.  "Some 
poor  damn'  fool." 

"Is  I  ever  played  you  Nellie  was  a  Lady?" 

"'Tis  awful!" 

"'Tis  not,"  says  I.  "'Tis  a  popular  ballad  an' 
has  many  good  points." 

"I  don't  mean  the  ballad,  Tumm,"  says  he.  "Play 
it  an  you  wants  to.  Don't  sing  it,  though,  I'm  too 
bothered  t'  tolerate  more  confusion  this  night.  The 
more  I  thinks  o'  the  mess  that  that  poor  lad's  in 


i-ri 


212  Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

the  worse  I  grieves.  Man  alive,  'tis  a  terrible  busi- 
ness  altogether!  If  they  hadn't  praised  his  father 
so  high_,f  they  hadn't  teached  the  lad  t'  think 
that  bed  write  a  letter  or  come  home  again-if 
the  lad  wasn't  jus'  the  loyal  little  nipper  that  he 
IS!  I  tell  you,  Tumm,  that  lad's  sheer  daft  with 
adm.rat.on  of  his  pa.  He've  lifted  his  pa  above 
God  Almighty.  When  he  finds  out  the  truth,  he'll 
fall  down  and  scream  in  agony,  an'  he'll  die 
squ.nn.n',  too.  I  can  fair  hear  un  now-an'  see 
un  writhe  in  pain." 
All  this  while  I  was  whisperin'  in  my  flute.  'Twas 

a  comfort  t'  ease  my  mood  in  that  way 

"I  can't  bear  t'  think  of  it,  Tumm,"  says  the 

Skipper.     '  'Tis  the  saddest  thing  ever  I  beared  of 

I  w.sh  wed  never  dropped  anchor  in  Hide-an'-Seek 

Harbor. 

"I  don't,"  says  I. 

'•Then  you've  a  heart  harder  than  rock,"  says  he 
.^.  <=°'"«' n°w,"  says  I ;  "have  done  with  the  matter! 
1  IS  no  affair  o'  yours,  is  it  ?" 

"The  lad  mustn't  find  out  the  truth." 

"Can  you  stop  the  mouth  o'  the  whole  wide 
world  ? 

"You  knows  very  well  that  I  can't." 
"I'm  not  so  sure  that  'twould  be  wise  t'  withhold 
the  truth,"_  says  I.  "  'Tis  a  mystery  t'  me_wisdom 
an  foily  .n  a  case  like  this.  Anyhow,"  says  I 
givm  free  course,  in  the  melancholy  that  possessed 
me,  to  an  impulse  o'  piety,  "God  Almighty  knows 


The  Little  Nipper  213 

how  t'  manage  His  world.  An'  as  I  looks  at  your 
face,  an'  as  I  listens  t'  your  complaint,"  says  I,  "I'm 
wiUin'^  t'  wager  that  He've  got  His  plan  worked 
near  t'  the  point  o'  perfection  at  this  very  minute." 

"Tell  me  how,  Tumm." 

"I'll  leave  you  to  brood  on  it,"  says  I,  "whilst  I 
plays  my  flute." 

Skipper  Harry  brooded  whilst  I  tooted  Toby 
Farr's  woeful  song  called  The  Last  Man  o'  the 
Fore-an'-After: 


When  the  schooner  struck  the  rock. 
She  was  splintered  by  the  shock; 

An*  the  breakers  didn't  ask  for  leave  or  token. 
No !   They  hove  un,  man  an'  kid. 
Slap  ag'in  the  cliff,  they  did, 

An'  kep'  heavin'  'til  the  bones  of  all  was  broken ! 

"Skipper  Harry,"  says  I,  then,  puttin'  aside  my  ol' 
flute,  "doesn't  you  know  what  you  can  do  t'  help 
that  lad  out  o'  trouble  for  good  an  'all?" 

"I  wish  I  did,  Tumm." 

"Is  you  as  stupid  as  all  that?" 

"I  isn't  stupid  as  a  usual  thing,"  says  he.  "My 
wits  is  all  scattered  with  rage  an'  sadness.  That's 
the  only  trouble." 

"Well,"  says  I,  "all  you  got  f  do " 

Skipper  Harry  warned  me. 

"Hist!" 

The  lad  was  half  way  down  the  companion.  I 
mind,  as  a  man  will  recall,  sometimes,  harkin'  back 


214 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


t'  the  crest  an'  close  of  a  livin"  tale  like  this  poor 
yam  o'  the  little  mystery  o'  Hide-an'-Seck  Harbor, 
that  there  was  wind  in  the  riggin'  an'  black  rain 
on  the  roof  o  'the  cabin.  An'  when  I  thinks  of  it 
all.  as  think  of  it  I  does,  meanderin'  along  with  my 
friendly  ol'  flute,  of  an  evenin'  in  the  fall  o'  the 
year,  when  trade's  done  an'  the  shelves  is  all  put  t' 
rights,  I  hears  that  undertone  o'  patter  an'  splash  an' 
sigh.  There  was  that  in  the  lad's  face  t'  stir  an  ache 
in  the  heart  of  a  sentimental  ol'  codger  like  me ;  an' 
when  I  seed  the  grim  lines  an'  gray  color  of  it,  an' 
when  I  caught  the  sorrow  an'  pride  it  uttered,  as 
the  lad  halted,  in  doubt,  peerin'  at  Skipper  Harry 
in  the  hope  of  a  welcome  below,  I  knowed  that  my 
surmise  was  true.  'Twas  a  vision  I  had,  I  fancy— 
a  flash  o'  revelation,  such  as  may  come,  as  some  part 
o'  the  fortune  they  inherit,  to  habitual  tellers  o' 
tales  o'  the  old  an'  young  like  me.  A  wee  lad,  true 
— Hide-an'-Seek  born,  an'  fated  the  worst;  yet  I 
apprehended,  all  at  once,  the  confusion  he  dwelt 
alone  in,  an'  felt  the  weight  o'  the  burden  he  car- 
ried alone;  an'  I  must  honor  the  courage  an'  good 
pride  of  his  quality.  Ay,  I  knows  he  was  young! 
I  knows  that  well  enough !  Nay,  my  sirs  an'  gentle- 
folk— I'm  not  makin'  too  much  of  it ! 

"Ah-ha!"  says  the  skipper.     "Here  you  is,  eh? 
Come  below,  sir,  an'  feel  welcome  aboard." 

Well,  the  lad  come  down  with  slow  feet ;  ?n'  then 
he  stood  before  Skipper  Harry  like  a  culprit. 

"Is  you  had  your  cup  o'  tea?"  says  the  skipper. 


The  Littie  Nipper 


315 


■ 

:;J 


"Yes,  sir.    I  thanks  you,  sir,  for  my  cup  o'  tea." 

"Sugar  in  it?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"All  you  wanted?" 

"As  much  as  my  need,  sir,  an'  more  than  my 
deserts.'' 

Skipper  Harry  clapped  un  on  the  back. 

"All  nonsense!"  says  he.  "You're  no  judge  o' 
your  deserts.  They're  a  good  round  measure,  I'll  be 
bound!" 

"They  isn't,  sir." 

"No  more  o'  that !    You  is  jus'  as  worthy " 

"No,  I  isn't!" 

"Well,  then,  have  it  your  own  way,"  says  the 
skipper.  "Is  you  comin'  back  for  breakfpst  in  the 
momin'?    That's  what  I  wants  t'  know." 

"No,  sir." 

Skipper  Harry  jumped. 

"What's  that  ?"  says  he     "Why  not  ?" 

"I've  shamed  your  goodness,  sir." 

"Bcsh!"  says  the  skipper. 

The  lad's  lips  was  dry.  He  licked  'em.  An'  his 
throat  was  dry.  ^xe  gulped.  An'  his  voice  was 
hoarse. 

"I  been  lyin'  t'  you,"  says  he. 

"You  been " 

All  at  once  the  lad's  voice  went  shrill  as  a  maid's. 
'Twas  distressful  t'  hear. 

"Lyin'  t'  you,  sir!"  says  he.  "I  been  lyin'  t'  you 
jus'  like  mad!    An'  now  you'll  not  forgive  me!" 


216 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


"Tumm,"  says  the  skipper,  "this  is  a  very  queer 
thing.    I  can't  make  it  out." 

I  could. 

"No  harm  in  easin'  the  conscience  freely,"  says  I 
f  the  lad.    "What  you  been  lyin'  about?" 

"Heed  me  well,  sir!"    This  t'  the  skipper. 

"Ay,  my  son?" 

"I  isn't  got  no  pa!  My  pa's  dead!  My  pa  was 
hanged  by  the  neck  until  he  was  dead  for  the  murder 
o'  Mean  Michael  Mitchell  o'  Topsail  Run!" 

Well,  that  was  true.  Skipper  Harry  an'  me 
knowed  that.  Everybody  in  Newf'un'land  knowed 
it.  Seven  years  afore — the  hangin'  was  done. 
Sammy  Scull  was  a  baby  o'  three  at  the  time.  'Twas 
a  man's  crime,  whatever,  if  a  man  an'  a  crime  can 
be  linked  with  satisfaction.  Still  an'  all,  'twas  a 
murder,  an'  a  foul,  foul  deed  for  that  reason. 
We've  few  murders  in  Newf'un'land.  They  shock 
us.  They're  never  forgotten.  An'  there  was  a  deal 
made  o'  that  one,  an'  'twas  still  the  latest  murder 
— news  o'  the  trial  at  St.  John's  spread  broadcast 
over  the  three  coasts;  an'  talk  o'  the  black  cap  an' 
the  black  flag,  an'  gruesome  tales  o'  the  gallows  an' 
the  last  prayer,  an'  whispers  o'  the  quicklime  that 
ended  it  all.  Sammy  Scull  could  go  nowhere  in 
Newf'un'land  an'  escape  the  shadow  an'  shame  o' 
that  rope.  Let  the  lad  grow  t'  manhood?  No 
matter.  Let  un  live  it  down?  He  could  not.  The 
tongues  o'  the  gossips  would  wag  in  his  wake  where- 


The  Little  Nipper  817 

soever  he  went.  Son  of  John  Scull  o'  Hide-an*- 
Seek  Harbor!  Why,  sir,  the  man's  father  was 
hanged  by  the  neck  at  St.  John's  for  the  murder  o' 
Mean  Michael  Mitchell  o'  Topsail  Run! 

Skipper  Harry  put  a  hand  on  Sammy  Scull's  head. 

"My  son,"  says  he,  "is  you  quite  sure  about  what 
you've  jus'  told  us?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"How  long  is  you  knowed  it?" 

"Oh,  a  long,  long  time,  sir!  I  learned  it  of  a 
dirty  day  in  the  fall  o'  last  year.  Isn't  it— isn't  it 
true,  sir?" 

Skipper  Harry  nodded. 

"Ay,  my  son,"  says  he;  "  'tis  quite  true." 

"Oh,  my  poor  pa!" 

Skipper  Harry  put  a  finger  under  the  lad's  chin 
an'  tipped  up  his  face. 

"Who  tol'  you?"  says  he. 

"I  found  a  ol'  newspaper,  sir,  in  Sandy  Spot's 
bureau,  sir,  where  I  was  forbid  t'  pry,  sir,  an'  I 
read  all  about  it.  My  pa  left  one  child  named 
Samuel  when  he  was  hanged  by  the  neck — ^an'  that's 
me. 

"You've  told  nobody  what  you  learned?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Why  not?" 

"I'd  liefer  pretend  not  t'  know,  sir,  when  they 
baited  me,  an'  so  save  myself  shame." 

"Jus'  so,  my  son." 


218 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


j.  * 


"An"  I  jus'  lied  an'  Ued  an*  lied !" 

"Mm-m." 

Skipper  Harry  lifted  the  lad  t'  the  counter,  then, 
an'  bent  to  a  level  with  his  eyes. 

"Look  me  in  the  eye,  son,"  says  he.  "I've  a 
grave  word  t'  say  t'  you.  Will  you  listen  well  an' 
ponder?" 

"I'll  ponder,  sir,  an  you'll  jus'  forgive  my  fault." 

"Sammy,  my  son,"  says  the  skipper,  "I  forgives 
it  freely.  Now,  listen  t'  me.  Is  you  listenin'? 
Well,  now,  I  knows  a  snug  harbor  t'  the  south  o' 
this.  'Tis  called  Yesterday  Cove.  An'  in  the  harbor 
is  a  cottage,  an'  in  the  cottage  is  a  woman ;  an'  the 
woman  is  ample  an'  kind.  She've  no  lad  of  her 
own — that  kind,  ample  woman.  She've  only  a  hus- 
band.   That's  me.    An'  I  been  thinkin' " 

I  stirred  myself. 

"I  'low  I'll  meander  for'ard,"  says  I,  "an'  have 
a  cup  o'  tea  with  the  hands." 

"Do,  Tumm,"  says  the  skipper. 


Well,  now,  I  went  for'ard  t'  have  my  cup  o'  tea 
an'  brood  on  this  sorry  matter.  'Twas  plain,  how- 
ever, what  was  in  the  wind;  an'  when  I  went  aft 
again,  an'  begun  t'  meander  along,  breathin'  the 
sad  strains  o'  Toby  Farr's  songs  on  my  flute,  the 
thing  had  come  t'  pass,  though  no  word  was  said 
about  it.  There  was  the  skipper  an'  wee  Sammy 
StuU,  yamin'  t'gether  like  ol'  cronies — the  lad  with 


The  Little  Nipper  219 

his  ears  an'  eyes  wide  t'  the  tale  that  Hard  Harry 
was  tellin'.  I  jus'  wet  my  whistle  with  a  drop  o' 
wa'er,  t'  limber  my  lips  for  the  music,  an'  whis- 
pered away  on  my  flute;  but  as  I  played  I  must 
listen,  an'  as  I  hstened  I  was  astonished,  an' 
presently  I  give  over  my  tootin'  altogether,  the 
better  t'  hearken  t'  the  wild  yam  that  Hard  Harry 
was  spinnin'.  'Twas  a  yam  that  was  well  knowed 
t'  me.  Man  alive!  Whew!  'Twas  a  tax  on  the 
belief— that  yam!  Ay,  I  had  heared  it  afore— the 
yam  o'  how  Hard  Harry  had  chopped  a  way  t'  the 
crest  of  an  iceberg  in  foul  weather  t'  spy  out  a 
course  above  the  fog,  an'  o'  how  he  had  split  the 
berg  in  two  with  the  last  blow  of  his  ax,  an'  failed 
safe  between  the  halves,  an'  swimmed  aboard  his 
schooner  in  a  gale  o'  wind;  an'  though  I  had  heared 
the  tale  verified  by  others,  I  never  could  swallow 
it  whole  at  all,  but  deemed  it  the  cleverest  whopper 
that  ever  a  man  had  invented  in  play. 

When  Skipper  Harry  had  done,  the  lad  turned 
t'  me,  his  face  in  a  flush  o'  pride. 

"Mister  Tumm !"  says  he. 

"Sir  t'  you?"  says  I. 

"Isyoulistenin't'me?" 

"I  is." 

"Well,  then,  you  listen  an'  learn.    That's  what 
I  wants  you  t'  do." 

"I'll  learn  all  I  can,"  says  I.    "What  is  it?" 

Sammy  Scull  slapped  his  knee.    An'  he  laughed 


ill 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

a  free  ripple  o'  glee  an'  looked  Skipper  Harry  over 
whilst  he  vowed  the  truth  of  his  words.    "I'll  lay 
my  liver  an'  Mghts  on  it,"  says  he,  "that  I  got  the 
boldest  pa  ..." 
That's  all. 


over 
I  lay 
t  the 


VIII 
SMALL  SAM  SMALL 


VIII 
SMALL  SAM  SMALL 

WE  were  lying  snug  from  the  wind  and  tea 
in  Right-an'-Tight  Cove— the  Straits  shore 
of  the  Labrador— when  Tumm,  the  clerk 
of  the  Quick  as  Wink,  trading  the  northern  outports 
for  salt  cod  in  fall  weather,  told  the  engaging  tale 
of  Small  Sam  Small,  of  Whooping  Harbor.     It 
was  raining.    This  was  a  sweeping  downpour,  sleety 
and  thick,  driving,  as  they  say  in  those  parts,  from 
a  sky  as  black  as  a  wolf's  throat.    There  was  no 
star  showing;  there  were  cottage  lights  on  the  hills 
ashore— warm  and  human  litUe  glimmers  in  the 
dark— but  otherwise  a  black  confusion  all  round 
about.    The  wind,  running  down  from  the  north- 
west, tumbled  over  the  cliff,  and  swirled,  bewildered 
and  angry,  in  the  lee  of  it.    Riding  under  Lost  Craft 
Head,  in  this  black  turmoil,  the.  schooner  shivered 
a  bit;  and  she  droned  aloft,  and  she  whined  below, 
and  she  restlessly  rose  and  fell  in  the  soft  swell 
that  came  spent  and  frothy  from  the  wide  open 
through  Run  Away  Tickle.  But  for  all  we  in  the 
forecastle  knew  of  the  bitter  night— of  the  roaring 
white  seas  and  a  wind  thick  and  stinging  with  spume 


224 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


'K   1. 


I     'I 


'/^ 


snatched  from  the  long  crests — it  was  blowing  a 
moonlit  breeze  aboard.  The  forecastle  lamp  burned 
placidly;  and  the  little  stove  was  busy  with  its  ac- 
customed employment — laboring  with  much  noisy 
fuss  in  the  display  of  its  genial  accompUshments. 
Skipper  and  crew— and  Tumm,  the  clerk,  and  I— 
lounged  at  ease  in  the  glow  and  warmth.  No  gale 
from  the  nor" west,  blow  as  it  would  in  fall  weather, 
could  trouble  the  Quick  as  Wink,  lying  at  anchor 
under  Lost  Craft  Head  in  Right-an'-Tight  Cove  of 
the  Labrador. 

"When  a  man  lays  hold  on  a  little  strand  o' 
human  wisdom,"  said  Tumm,  breaking  a  heavy 
muse,  "an'  hangs  his  whole  weight  to  it,"  he  added, 
with  care,  "he've  no  cause  t'  agitate  hisself  with 
surprise  if  the  rope  snaps." 

"What's  this  preachin'?"  the  skipper  demanded. 
"That  ain't  no  preachin',"  said  Tumm,  resent- 
fuUy;"'tisa/eKr/." 

"Well,"  the  skipper  complained,  "what  you  want 
t'  go  an'  ask  a  hard  question  like  that  for?" 

"Sittin'  here  in  the  forecastle  o'  the  ol'  Quick  as 
Wink,  in  this  here  black  gale  from  the  nor'west," 
said  Tumm,  "along  o'  four  disgruntled  dummies  an' 
a  capital  P  passenger  in  the  doldrums,  I  been 
thinkin'  o'  Small  Sam  Small  o'  Whoopin'  Harbor. 
'This  here  world,  accordin'  as  she's  run,'  says  Small 
Sam  Small,  'is  no  fit  place  for  a  decent  man  t' 
dwell.  The  law  o'  life,  as  I  was  teached  it,'  says 
he,  'is  Have;  but  as  I  sees  the  needs  o'  men,  Tumm, 


Small  Sam  Small 


S25 


it  ought  t'  be  Give.    T  have—t'  take  an' t'  keep— 
breaks  a  good  man's  heart  in  the  end.     He  lies 
awake  in  the  night,  Tumm — in  the  company  of  his 
own  heart— an'  he  isn't  able  t'  forget  jus'  how  he 
got.    I'm  no  great  admirer  o'  the  world,  an'  I  isn't 
very  fond  o'  life,'  says  he;  'but  I  knows  the  law  o' 
life,  an'  lives  the  best  I  can  accordin'  t'  the  rules 
I've  learned.    I  was  cast  out  t'  make  my  way  as  a 
wee  small  lad;  an'  I  was  teached  the  law  o'  life 
by  harsh  masters— by  nights'  labor,  an'  kicks,  an' 
robbery,  Tumm,  by  wind,  an'  cold,  an'  great  big 
seas,  by  a  empty  belly,  an'  the  fear  o'  death  in  my 
small  heart.    So  I'm  a  mean  man.    I'm  the  meanest 
man  in  Newf'un'land.    They  says  my  twin  sister 
died  o'  starvation  at  the  age  o'  two  months  along 
o'  my  greed.    May  be :  I  don't  know — but  I  hopes 
I  never  was  bom  the  mean  man  I  is.    Anyhow,' 
says  he,  'Small  Sam  Small — that's  me — an'  I  stands 
by!    I'm  a  damned  mean  man,  an'  I  isn't  unaware; 
but  they  isn't  a  man  on  the  St.  John's  waterside — 
an'  they  isn't  a  big-bug  o'  Water  Street— can  say 
t'  me,  "Do  this,  ye  bay-noddie!"  or,  "Do  that,  ye 
bankrupt  out-porter!"  or,   "Sign  this,  ye  coast's 
whelp!"    Still  an'  all,  Tumm,'  says  he,  'I  don't  like 
myself  very  much,  an'  I  isn't  very  fond  o'  the  com- 
pany o'  the  soul  my  soul's  become.' 

"'Never  you  mind,  Sam  Small,'  says  I;  'we've 
all  done  dirty  tricks  in  our  time.' 

"'All?' 

"'Never  a  mother's  son  in  all  the  world  past 


226 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


il 


fourteen  years,'  says  I,  'hasn't  a  ghost  o'  wicked 
conduct  t'  haunt  his  hotirs  alone.' 

"'You,  too,  Tunun?' 

"'Mersaysl.    'Good  Heavens!' 

"  'Uh-huh,'  says  he.  'I  'low;  but  that  don't  com- 
fort me  so  very  much.  You  see,  Tumm,  I  got  t' 
live  with  myself,  an'  bein'  quite  well  acquainted  with 
myself,  I  don't  like  to.  They  isn't  much  domestic 
peace  in  my  ol'  heart ;  an'  they  isn't  no  divorce  court 
I  ever  heared  tell  of,  neither  here  nor  hereafter,  in 
which  a  man  can  free  hissclf  from  his  own  damneu 
souL' 

"  'Never  you  mind,'  says  I. 

"  'Uh-huh,'  says  he.  'You  see,  I  don't  mind.  I 
— I — I  jus'  don't  dast!  But  if  I  could  break  the 
law,  as  I've  been  teached  it,'  says  he,  'they  isn't 
nothin'  in  the  world  I'd  rather  do,  Tumm,  than 
found  a  norphan  asylum.' 

"  'Maybe  you  will,'  says  I. 

"  'Too  late,'  says  he ;  'you  see,  I'm  fashioned.' 

"He  was." 

Tumm  laughed  a  little. 


Tumm  warned  us:  "You'll  withhold  your  pity 
for  a  bit,  I  'low.  'Tis  not  yet  due  ol'  Small  Sam 
Small."  He  went  on:  "Small?  An'— an'  ecod! 
Small  Sam  Small  I  He  gained  t'  e  name  past  middle 
age,  they  says,  long  afore  I  knowed  un;  an'  'tis  a 
pretty  tale,  as  they  tells  it.  He  skippered  the  Last 
Chance — a  Twillingate   fore-an'-after,   fishin'   the 


■'I  i 


Small  Sam  Small 


227' 


Labrador,  hand  an'  trap,  between  the  Devil's  Battery 
an'  the  Barnyards — the  Year  o'  the  Third  Big  Haul. 
An'  it  seems  he  fell  in  love  with  the  cook.  God 
save  us!  Sam  Small  in  love  with  the  cook!  She 
was  the  on'y  woman  aboard,  as  it  used  t'  be  afore 
the  law  was  made  for  women ;  an'  a  sweet  an'  likely 
maid,  they  says — ^a  rosy,  dimpled,  good-natured  lass, 
hailin'  from  down  Chain  Tickle  way,  but  over- 
young  an'  trustful,  as  it  turned  out,  t'  be  voyagin' 
north  t'  the  fishin'  with  the  likes  o'  Small  Sam 
Small.  A  hearty  maid,  they  says — blue-eyed  an' 
flaxen — good  for  labor  an'  quick  t'  love.  An'  havin' 
fell  in  love  with  her,  whatever,  Small  Sam  Small 
opened  his  heart  for  a  minute,  an'  give  her  his  silver 
watch  t'  gain  her  admiration.  'You'll  never  tell  the 
crew,  my  dear,'  says  he,  'that  I  done  such  a  foolish 
thing!'  So  the  maid  stowed  the  gift  in  her  box — 
much  pleased,  the  while,  they  says,  with  Small  Sam 
Small — ^an'  said  never  a  word  about  it.  She'd  a 
brother  t'  home,  they  says — a  wee  bit  of  a  chappie 
with  a  lame  leg — an'  thinks  she,  'I'll  give  Billy  my 
silver  watch.' 

"But  Sam  Small,  bein'  small,  repented  the  gift; 
an'  when  the  Last  Chance  dropped  anchor  in  Twil- 
lingate  harbor,  loaded  t'  the  gunwales  with  green 
fish,  he  come  scowlin'  on  deck. 

"  'They  isn't  none  o'  you  goin'  ashore  yet,'  says 
he. 

"  'Why  not?'  says  they. 


II 


228 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


¥' 


"  'They  isn't  none  o'  you  goin'  ashore,'  says  he, 
'afore  a  constable  comes  aboard.' 

"  'What  you  wantin'  a  constable  for?'  says  they. 

"  "They  isn't  none  o'  you  goin'  ashore  afore  this 
schooner's  searched,'  says  he.  'My  silver  watch  is 
stole.' 

"'Stole!'  says  they. 

"'Ay,'  says  he;  'somebody's  took  my  silver 
watch.' " 

Tumm  paused. 

"Tumm,"  the  skipper  of  the  Quick  as  Wink  de- 
manded, "what  become  o'  that  there  little  maid  from 
Chain  Tickle?" 

"Well,"  Tumm  drawled,  "the  maid  from  Chain 
Tickle  had  her  baby  in  jail.  .  .  . 


"You  see,"  Tumm  ran  along,  in  haste  to  be  gone 
from  this  tragedy,  "Sam  Small  was  small — almighty 
small  an'  mean.  A  gray-faced  ol'  skinflint — an' 
knowed  for  such:  knowed  from  '-hidley  t'  Cape 
Race  an'  the  Newf'un'land  Grand  Banks  as  the 
meanest  wolf  the  Almighty  ever  made  the  mistake 
o'  lettin'  loose  in  a  kindly  world — ^knowed  for  the 
same  in  e"ery  tap-room  o'  the  St.  John's  water- 
side, from  the  Royal  George  t'  the  Anchor  an' 
Chain — a  lean,  lanky,  hunch-shouldered,  ghastly  ol' 
codger  in  Jews'  slops  an'  misfits,  with  a  'ong  white 
beard,  a  scrawny  neck,  lean  chops,  an'  squintin' 
little  eyes,  as  green  an'  cold  as  an  iceberg  in  gray 
weather.    Honest  or  dishonest? — ecod!  what  mat- 


Small  Sam  Small  229 

ter?    They's  nothin'  sc  wicked  as  meanness.    But 
the  law  hadn't  cotched  un:  for  the  law  winks  with 
both  eyes.    'I'm  too  old  for  rrime  now,  an'  too  rich  ' 
says  he;  'but  I've  worked  hard,  accordin'  f  the  law 
o  life,  as  she  was  teached  me,  an'  I've  took  chances 
in  my  time.    When  I  traveled  the  outports  in  my 
ycuth,'  says  he,  'I  sold  liquor  for  green  paint  an' 
slep'  with  the  constable;  an'  the  socks  o'  the  out- 
port  fishermen,  Tumm,'  says  he,  'holds  many  a  half- 
dollar  I  coined  in  my  Whoopin'   Harbor  days.' 
He'd  no  piety  t'  save  his  soul.    'No  church  for  me,' 
says  he;  'you  see,  I'm  no  admirer  o'  the  handiwork 
o'  God.    Git,  keep,  an'  have,'  says  he;  'that's  the 
religion  o'  my  youth,  an'  I'll  never  despite  the 
teachin'  o'  them  years.'    Havin'  no  bowels  o'  com- 
passion, he'd  waxed  rich  in  his  old  age.    'Oh,'  says 
he,  'I'm  savin'  along,  Tumm— I'm  jus'  savin''along 
so-so  for  a  little  job  I  fit  t'  do.'    Savin'  along? 
He'd  two  schooners  fishin'  the  Labrador  in  the  sea- 
son, a  share  in  a  hundred-ton  banker,  stock  in  a 
south  coast  whale-factory,  God  knows  how  much 
yellow  gold  in  the  bank,  an'  a  round  interest  in  the 
swiler  Royal  Bloodhound,  which  he  skippered  t'  the 
ice  every  spring  o*  the  year. 
II 'So-so,'  says  he;  'jus'  savin'  along  so-so.' 
*| 'So-so!'  says  I;  'you're  rich.  Skipper  Sammy.' 
"  'I'm  not  jus'  in  agreement  with  the  plan  o'  the 
vyorld  as  she's  run,'  says  he;  'but  if  I've  a  fortune 
t'  ease  my  humor,  I  'low  the  Lord  gets  even,  after 
all.' 


230 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


"'How  so?'  says  I. 

"  'If  I'm  blessed  with  a  taste  for  savin',  Tuirnn,' 
says  he,  'I'm  cursed  with  a  thirst  for  liquor.' 

"  'Twas  true  enough,  I  'low.  The  handiwork  o* 
God,  in  the  matter  o'  men's  hearts,  is  by  times  be- 
yond me  t'  fathom.  For  look  you !  a  poor  devil  will 
want  This  an'  crave  That  when  This  an'  That  are 
spittin'  cat  an'  growlin'  dog.  They's  small  hope 
for  a  man's  peace  in  a  mess  like  that.  A  lee  shore, 
ecod!— breakers  t'  le'ward  an'  a  brutal  big  wind 
jumpin'  down  from  the  open  sea.  Thirst  an'  mean- 
ness never  yet  kep'  agreeable  company.  'Tis  a  won- 
derful mess,  ecod!  when  the  Almighty  puts  the  love 
of  a  penny  in  a  mean  man's  heart  an'  tunes  his 
gullet  t'  the  appreciation  o'  good  Jamaica  rum.  An' 
I  never  knowed  a  man  t'  carry  a  more  irksome 
burden  of  appetite  than  Small  Sam  Small  o'  Whoop- 
in'  Harbor.  'Twas  fair  horrible  f  see.  Cursed 
with  a  taste  for  savin',  ay,  an'  cursed,  too,  with  a 
thirst  for  good  Jamaica  ruml  I've  seen  his  eyes 
glitter  an'  his  tongue  lick  his  lips  at  the  sight  of  a 
bottle ;  an'  I've  beared  un  groan,  an'  seed  his  face 
screw  up,  when  he  pinched  the  pennies  in  his  pocket 
an'  turned  away  from  the  temptation  t'  spend.  It 
hurt  un  t'  the  backbone  t'  pull  a  cork;  he  squirmed 
when  his  dram  got  past  his  Adam's  apple.  An', 
Lord!  how  the  outport  crews  would  grin  t'  see  un 
trickle  little  drops  o'  liquor  into  his  belly — t'  watch 
un  shift  in  his  chair  at  the  Anchor  an'  Chain,  an' t' 
hear  un  grunt  an'  sigh  when  the  dram  was  down. 


Small  Sam  Small  S81 

But  ^mall  Sam  Small  was  no  toper.    Half-seas- 
over  jus'  on'y  once.    It  cost  un  dear. 


"I  sailed  along  o'  Cap'n  Sammy,"  Tumm  re- 
sumed, "on  the  swilin*  v'yage  in  the  spring  o'  the 
Year  o'  the  Westerly  Gales.  I  mind  it  well:  I've 
cause.  The  Royal  Bloodhound:  a  stout  an'  well- 
found  craft.  An'  a  spry  an'  likely  crew :  Sam  Small 
never  lacked  the  pick  o'  the  swilin'-boys  when  it 
come  t'  fittin'  out  for  the  ice  in  the  spring  o'  the 
year.  He'd  get  his  lo.id  o'  fat  with  the  cleverest 
skippers  of  un  all;  an'  the  wily  skippers  o'  the  fleet 
would  tag  the  ol'  rat  through  the  ice  from  Battle 
Harbor  t'  the  Grand  Banks.  'Small  Sam  Small,' 
says  they,  'will  nose  out  them  swiles.'  An'  Small 
Sam  Small  done  it  every  spring  o'  the  year.  No 
clothes  off  for  Small  Sam  Small !  'Twas  tramp  the 
deck,  night  an'  day.  'Twas  'How's  the  weather?' 
at  midnight  an*  noon.  'Twas  the  crow's-nest  at 
dawn.  'Twas  squintin'  little  green  eyes  glued  t'  the 
glass  the  day  long.  An'  'twas  'Does  you  see  un, 
lads?'  forever  an'  all;  an'  'twas  'Damme,  where' s 
that  fatf  But  'twas  now  Sam  Small's  last  v'yage, 
says  he ;  he'd  settle  down  when  he  made  port  again, 
an'  live  free  an'  easy  in  his  old  age,  with  a  good  fire 
t'  warm  his  bones,  an'  a  bottle  at  his  elbow  for 
reasonable  sippin'  of  a  cold  night.  A  man  should 
loosen  up  in  his  old  -e,  says  he;  an'  God  grantin' 
him  bloody  decks  an'  a  profitable  slaughter,  that 
v'yage,  he'd  settle  down  for  good  an'  never  leave 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


port  again.  He  was  tired,  says  he;  he  was  old — 
an'  he  was  all  tired  out — and  he'd  use  the  comfort 
he'd  earned  in  all  them  years  o'  labor  an'  savin'. 
Wasn't  so  much  in  life,  after  all,  for  a  old  man  like 
him,  says  he,  except  a  fireside  chair,  or  a  seat  in 
the  sunlight,  with  a  nip  o'  the  best  Jamaica,  watered 
t'  the  taste. 

"  'You  come  along  o'  me  as  mate,  Tumra,'  says 
he,  'an'  I'll  fill  your  pocket' 

"  'I'm  not  averse  t'  cash,'  says  I. 

"  'These  here  ol'  bones  creaks  out  t'  the  ice  for  • 
swiles,'  says  he,  'an'  not  for  the  pleasures  o'  cruisin'.' 

"  'I'll  ship.  Skipper  Sammy,'  says  I.  'I'll  ship 
with  the  skipper  that  gets  the  fat.* 

"  'You  hails  from  Chain  Tickle?'  says  he. 

"  'I  does.' 

"  'Tumm,'  says  he,  'I'm  a  old  man,  an'  I'm  down- 
cast in  these  last  days ;  an'  I  been  'lowin',  somehow, 
o'  late,  that  a  dash  o'  young  blood  in  my  whereabouts 
micht  cheer  me  up.  I  'low,  Tumm,'  says  he,  'you 
don't  know  a  likely  lad  t'  take  along  t'  the  ice  an' 
break  in  for  his  own  good?  Fifteen  years  or  so? 
I'd  berth  un  well  aboard  the  Bloodhound.' 

"  'I  does,'  says  I. 

"'You  might  fetch  un,'  says  he;  'nothin'  hke 
young  blood  t'  cheer  the  aged.' 

"Til  fetch  un  quick  enough.  Skipper  Sammy,' 
says  I,  'if  you'll  stand  by  my  choice.' 

"  'As  I  knowed  you  would,  Tumm,'  says  he,  'you 
takes  me  cleverly.' 


Small  Sam  Small 

"It  wasn't  long  after  that  afore  a  young  lad  I 
knowed  in  Chain  Tickle  come  shoutin'  down  t'  St. 
John's.    A  likely  lad,  too:  blue-eyed,  tow-headed! 
an'  merry— tlie  likes  of  his  mother,  a  widow.    No 
har,  no  coward,  no  pinch-a-penny :  a  fair,  frank- 
eyed,  lovable  little  rascal— a  forgiven  young  scape- 
grace—with no  mind  beyond  the  love  an'  livin' 
jollity  o'  the  day.    Hang  the  morrow  1  says  he  •  the 
morrow  might  do  very  well,  he'd  be  bound,  when 
It  come.    Show  him  the  fun  o'  the  minute.    An'  he 
had  a  laugh  f  shame  the  dumps— a  laugh  as  catchin' 
as  smallpox.  'EcodI'  thinks  I;  'it  may  very  well  be 
that  Sam  Small  will  smile.'    A  brave  an'  likely  lad- 
with  no  fear  o'  the  devil  hisself— nor  overmuch 
regard,  I'm  thinkin',  for  the  chastisements  o'  God 
Almighty— but  on'y  respect  for  the  wish  of  his  own 
little  mother,  who  was  God  enough  for  he.    'What  •' 
Mys  he;  'we're  never  goin'  t'  sea  with  Sam  Small. 
Small   Sam   Small?     Sam   Small,  the  skinflint?' 
But  he   took  a   wonderful   fancy  t'   Small   Sam 
Small;  an'  as   for  Skipper  Sammy— why— Skip- 
per   Sammy  loved   the  graceless  rogue  on   sight. 
Why,  Tumm,'  says  he,   'he's  jus'  like  a  gentle- 
man's son.    Why  'tis— 'tis  like  a  nip  o'  rum— 'tis 
as  good  as  a  nip  o'  the  best  Jamaica— t'  clap  eyes 
on  a  fair,  fine  lad  like  that.    Is  you  marked  his  eyes, 
Tumm?— saucy  as  blood  an'   riches.     They   fair 
bored  me  t'  the  soul  like  Sir  Harry  McCracken's. 
They's  blood  behind  them  eyes— blood  an'  a  sense 
o' wealth.    An' his  strut!    Is  you  marked  the  strut. 


234  Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

Tumm?— the  very  air  of  a  game-cock  in  a  barn- 
yard. It  tokes  a  gentleman  bom  t'  walk  like  that. 
I  tells  you,  Tumm,  with  wealth  t'  back  un-with 
wealth  t'  back  body  an'  brain  an"  blue  blood  like 
that— the  lad  would  be  a  lawyer  at  twenty-three 
an"  Chief  Justice  o'  Newf'un'land  at  thirty-seven. 
You  mark  we/'  -       c.     « 

"I'm  thinkin',  whatever,  that  Small  Sam  Small 
had  the  natural  prejudice  o'  fatherhood. 

"  'Tumm,'  says  he,  'he's  cheered  me  up.    Is  he 

savin'  ?' 

"  'Try  for  yourself,'  says  I. 
"Skipper  Sammy  put  the  boy  t'  the  test,  next 
night,  at  the  Anchor  an'  Chain.     'Lad,'  says  he, 
•here's  the  gift  o'  half  a  dollar.' 

"  'For  me.  Skipper  Sammy?'  says  the  lad.  Tis 
as  much  as  ever  I  had  in  my  life.    Have  a  drink. 

"  'Have  a  whatf 

'"You  been  wonderful  good  t'  me,  Skipper 
Sammy,'  says  the  lad,  'an'  I  wants  f  buy  you  a 
glass  o'  good  rum.'  .     , 

"  'Huh!'  says  Small  Sam  SmaU;    'tis  expensive.^ 

"  'Ay.'  says  the  lad ;  'but  what's  a  half-dollar  forf 

"  'Well,'  says  Skipper  Sammy,  'a  careful  lad  like 
vuu  might  save  it.' 

"The  poor  lad  passed  the  half-dollar  back  over 
the  table  t'  Small  Sam  Small.  'Skipper  Sammy,' 
says  he,  'jiou  save  it.    It  fair  bums  my  fingers.' 

"  'Mary,  my  dear,'  says  Sam  Small  t'  the  bar- 
maid, 'a  couple  o'  nips  o'  the  best  Jamaica  you  got 


Small  Sam  Small  tu 

In  the  house  for  me  an'  Mr.  Tumm.    Fetch  the  lad 
a  bottle  o'  ginger^e— <w-ported.    Damn  the  ex- 
pense, anyhow  I    Let  the  lad  spend  his  money  as  he 
has  the  notion.' 
"An'  Sam  Small  smiled 

"'Tumm,'  says  Small  Sam  Small,  that  night, 
when  the  boy  was  gone  f  bed,  'ecodl  but  the  child 
spends  like  a  gentlemaa' 

"  'How's  that,  Skipper  Sammy?' 

''  'Free,'  says  he,  'an'  genial.' 

"  'He'll  overdo  it,'  says  I. 

"  'No,'  says  he; '  'tisn't  in  the  blood.  He'll  spend 
what  he  haves— no  more.  An'  like  a  gentleman,  too 
—free  an'  genial  as  the  big-bugs.  A  marvelous 
lad,  Tumm,'  says  he;  'he've  ab-se-/«/e-ly  no  regard 
for  money.' 

"  'Not  he.' 

"'Ecodl' 

"  'He'll  be  a  comfort.  Skipper  Sammy,'  says  I, 
'on  the  swilin'  v'yage.' 

"  'I  'low,  Tumm,'  says  he,  'that  I've  missed  a  lot, 
in  my  life,  these  last  fifteen  year,  through  foolish- 
ness. You  send  the  lad  home,'  says  he;  'he's  a 
gentleman,  an'  haves  no  place  on  a  swilin'-ship. 
An'  they  -'sn't  no  sense,  Tumm,'  says  he,  'in  chancin' 
the  life  of  a  fair  lad  like  that  at  sea.  Let  un  go 
home  to  his  mother;  she'll  be  glad  t'  see  un  again. 
A  man  ought  t'  loosen  up  in  his  old  age :  I'll  pay. 
An',  Tumm— here's  a  two-dollar  note.     You  tell 


ii\ 


H 1 


li"    i\ 


11^    ,  (.  I 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 
..   .  J  ♦•  »Mte  it  aU  on  banana*.    Thit  here  bein' 

t'  save  my  pennies — nowt 

they've  gone  down  the  ^^^fl^^J^'^^r  noses 


Small  Sam  Small 


237 


"We  nude  the  northerly  limits  o'  the  Grand 
Banks  in  fog  an'  ca'm  weather.  Black  fog:  thick 
's  mud.  We  lay  to— butted  a  league  into  the  pack- 
ice.  Greasy  weather:  a  close  world  an'  a  moody 
glass. 

"  'Cap'n  Sammy,'  says  I,  on  the  bridge,  'there's 
no  tellin'  where  a  man  will  strike  the  fat.' 

"  'Small  chance  for  fat,  damme!'  says  he,  'in  fog 
an'  broodin'  weather.' 

"  'Give  her  a  show,'  says  I,  'an'  she'll  lighten.' 

"  'Lighten?'  says  he.  'Afore  night,  Tumm,  she'll 
blow  this  fog  t'  the  Saragossa  Sea.' 

"The  glass  was  in  a  mean,  poor  temper,  an'  the 
air  was  still,  an'  thick,  an'  sweaty. 

"  'Blow?'  says  he.  'Ay;  she's  breedin'  a  naughty 
nor'west  gale  o'  wind  down  there.' 

"It  seemed  t'  me  then  I  seed  a  shadow  in  the 
fog;  an',  'Cap'n  Sammy,'  says  I,  'what's  that  off  the 
port  bow?' 

"  'What's  what?'  says  he. 

"  'That  patch  o'  black  in  the  mist' 

"  'Tumm,'  says  he,  'you  might  tweak  the  toot- 
rope.' 

"The  Royal  Bloodhound  hadn't  opened  her  mouth 
afore  there  came  a  howl  from  the  mist. 

"Cap'n  Sammy  jumped.  'What  d'ye  make  o' 
that?'  says  he. 

"  'I  make  a  ship,'  says  I. 

"He  lifted  his  hand.    'Hark  I'  says  he. 


•1* 

l! 


■:S8 


238  Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

"Whatever  she  was,  she  was  yelUn'  for  help  like 
a  bull  in  a  bog. 
"'Whoo-o-o-oo!     Whoo,    whoo!     Whoo-o-oo- 

ugkf 

"Cap'n  Sammy  grimied.  'I  make  a  tramp  cotched 
fast  in  the  ice,'  says  he. 

•"Whoo-o-oo-Mff/i/    Whoo,  whoo,  whoo,  whoo- 

o-oopf 

"  *I  make  a  tramp,'  says  he,  rubbin'  his  hands, 
'with  her  propeller  ripped  off.' 

"I  reached  a  hand  for  the  rope. 

"  'Hoi'  on !'  says  he ;  'you  keep  your  hook  off  that 
there  whistle.' 

"  1  was  thinkin','  says  I,  't'  speed  a  message  o 

comfort' 

"  'Let  her  beller  a  bit,  ye  dunderhead !'  says  he. 

'"What  for?' says  I. 

"  T'  make  sure  in  her  own  mind,'  says  he,  'that 
she  needs  a  kindly  hand  t'  help  her.' 

"  'Twould  be  easy  enough  for  the  steam-swiler 
Royal  Bloodhound  t'  jerk  that  yelpin'  tramp,  had 
she  lost  her  propeller— as  well  she  might,  poor  help- 
less lady  o'  fashion!  in  that  slob-ice— 'twould  be 
easy  enough  t'  rip  her  through  a  league  o'  the  floe 
t'  open  water,  with  a  charge  or  two  o'  good  black 
powder  t'  help. 

"  'Tumm,'  says  Cap'n  Sammy,  by  an'  by,  'how  s 

the  glass?'  .   , 

"  'She've  the  look  an'  conduct  o'  the  devil,  sir. 
"  'Good!'  says  he.    'I  hopes  she  kicks  the  bottom 


Small  Sam  Smal 


239 


out.  You  might  go  so  far  as  t'  give  that  bellerin' 
ironclad  a  toot.' 

"I  tooted. 

"  'You  come  along  o'  me,  Tumm,'  says  he,  'an' 
learn  how  t'  squeeze  a  lemon.' 

"Cap'n  Sammy  kep'  explodin'  in  little  chuckles, 
like  a  bunch  o*  Queen's-birthday  firecrackers,  as  we 
trudged  the  ice  toward  the  howlin'  ship  in  the  mist. 
'Twas  a  hundred  fathoms  o'  rough  goin',  I  promise 
you,  that  northern  slob,  in  which  the  tramp  an' 
the  Royal  Bloodhound  lay  neighbors;  an'  'twas 
mixed  with  htmmiocks  an'  bergs,  an'  'twas  all 
raftered  an'  jammed  by  the  westerly  gales  o'  that 
season.  After  dawn  then;  an'  'twas  a  slow,  greasy 
dawn,  I  mind.  But  the  yellow  light  growed  fast  in 
the  fog;  an'  the  mist  thinned  in  a  whi£E  o'  wind 
from  the  nor' west  'Twould  lift,  by  an'  by :  a  clean, 
gray  day.  'Every  man  for  hisself,'  says  Cap'n 
Sammy,  as  we  drawed  near,  'an'  the  devil  take  the 
hindmost.  She's  a  likely-lookin'  craft.  Pinched 
fast,  too.  An'  the  weather-glass  kickin'  at  its 
foundations  I  Eh,  Tumm  ?  Every  man  for  hisself.' 
It  turned  out  Cap'n  Sammy  was  right.  She  was  a 
tramp,  the  Claymore,  two  thousand  tons,  outbound 
from  Liverpool  t'  Canadian  ports,  loaded  deep,  an' 
now  tight  in  the  grip  o'  the  ice.  In  a  big  blow  o' 
wind  her  iron  sides  would  yield  like  paper  t'  the 
crush  o'  the  pack.  An'  if  the  signs  read  true  that 
blow  was  brewin'  in  the  nor'west.  'Twas  breezin' 
up,  down  there,  with  the  sky  in  a  saucy  temper. 


240 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


From  the  deck  o'  the  Claymore  I  looked  t'  the  west, 
where  the  little  puflEs  o'  wind  was  jumpin*  from, 
an'  t'  the  sour  sky,  an'  roundabout  upon  the  ice; 
an'  I  was  glad  I  wasn't  shipped  aboard  that  thin- 
skinned  British  tramp,  but  was  mate  of  a  swilin'- 
steamer,  Newf'un'land  built,  with  sixteen-inch  oak 
sides,  an'  thrice  braced  with  oak  in  the  bows.  She 
was  spick  an'  span,  that  big  black  tramp,  fore  an' 
aft,  aloft  an'  below;  but  in  a  drive  o'  ice — ^with  the 
wind  whippin'  it  up,  an'  the  night  dark,  an'  the  pack 
a  livin',  roarin'  whirlpool  o'  pans  an'  bergs — white 
decks  an'  polished  brass  don't  count  for  much.  'Tis 
a  stout  oak  bottom,  then,  that  makes  for  peace  o' 
mind. 

"Cap'n  Wrath,  at  your  service,  sir:  a  dose- 
whiskered,  bristly,  pot-bellied  little  Britisher  in  brass 
buttons  an'  blue.  'Glad  t'  know  you,  Cap'n  Small,' 
says  he.  'You've  come  in  the  nick  o'  time,  sir.  How 
near  can  you  steam  with  that  ol'  batterin'-ram  o' 
yours?' 

"  'That  ol'  whatr  says  Cap'n  Sammy. 

"  'Here,  some  o'  you!'  Cap'n  Wrath  yelled  t'  the 
crew;  'get  a  line ' 

" 'Hoi'  on!'  says  Cap'n  Sammy;  'no  hurry.' 

"Cap'n  Wrath  jiunped. 

"'Got  yourself  in  a  nice  mess,  isn't  you?'  says 
Cap'n  Sammy.  'An'  in  these  busy  times,  too,  for 
OS  poor  swilers.    Lost  your  propeller,  isn't  you  ?' 

"  'No,  sir.' 

"'Ah-ha!'   says  Cap'n  Sammy.     'Got  a  weak 


Small  Sam  Small 


241 


blade,  eh?  Got  a  crack  somewheres  in  the  works, 
I'll  be  bound  I  An'  you  dassen't  use  your  propeller 
in  this  here  slob-ice,  eh?  Scared  o'  your  for'ard 
plates,  too,  isn't  you?  An'  you  wants  a  tow,  doesn't 
you  ?  You  wants  me  t'  take  chances  with  my  blades, 
eh,  an'  bruise  my  poor  ol'  bows,  buckin'  this  here 
ice,  t'  perk  your  big  yelpin'  ship  t'  open  water  afore 
the  gale  nips  you?' 

"Cap'n  Wrath  cocked  his  red  head. 

"  'Well,'  says  Cap'n  Sammy,  'know  what  /  wants? 
I  wants  a  dram  o'  rum.' 

"Cap'n  Wrath  laughed.  'Haw,  haw,  haw!'  says 
he.  An'  he  jerked  a  thumb  for  the  ship's  boy. 
Seemed  t'  think  Cap'n  Sammy  was  a  ol'  wag. 

"  'We  better  have  that  rum  in  your  pretty  little 
cabin,'  says  Cap'n  Sammy,  'an'  have  it  quick,  for 
the  weather  don't  favor  delay.  I'll  want  more,  an' 
you'll  need  more,  afore  we  strikes  our  bargain. 
Anyhow,  I'm  a  wonderful  hand  with  a  bottle,'  says 
he,  'when  it  ain't  my  bottle.' 

"'Haw,  hawl  Very  good,  indeed,  sir!'  says 
Cap'n  Wrath.    'I  missed  your  wink,  sir.' 

"They  went  off  then,  arm  in  arm,  like  ol'  cronies. 
'A  dram  o'  rum,  in  a  little  mess  like  this,  sir,'  says 
Cap'n  Sammy,  'has  heartened  many  a  man  afore 
you.' 

"When  they  come  down  from  the  upper  deck," 
Tumm  resumed,  "Cap'n  Sammy  was  a  bit  weak  in 
the  knees.    Tipsy,  sir.    Ay — Small  Sam  Small  with 


9*» 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


three  sheets  in  the  wind.  Free  mm  an'  a  fair 
prospect  o'  gluttin'  his  greed  had  overcome  un  for 
once  in  a  way.  But  grim,  sir — an'  with  Httle  patches 
o'  red  aflare  in  his  dry  white  cheeks.  An'  as  for 
Cap'n  Wrath,  that  poor  brass-buttoned  Britisher 
was  sputterin'  rage  like  a  Gatlin'  gua 

'"A  small  difference  of  opinion,  Tumm,'  says 
Cap'n  Sammy,  'over  North  Atlantic  towage  rates. 
Nothin'  more.' 

"  'Get  off  my  ship,  sir!'  says  Cap'n  Wrath. 

"  'Cap'n  Wrath,'  says  Cap'n  Sammy,  'you  better 
take  a  thoughtful  squint  at  your  weather-glass.' 

"Cap'n  Wrath  snarled. 

"  'You'll  crumple  up,  an'  you'll  sink  like  scrap- 
iron,'  says  Cap'n  Sammy,  'when  that  black  wind 
comes  down.  Take  the  word  for  it,'  says  he,  'of 
a  old  skipper  that  knows  the  ice  from  boyhood.' 

"Cap'n  Wrath  turned  his  back.  Never  a  word 
from  the  oi  cock,  ecod! — but  a  speakin'  sight  of 
his  blue  back. 

"  'If  you  works  a  cracked  propeller  in  this  here 
heavy  slob,'  says  Cap'n  Sammy,  'you'll  lose  it.  An' 
now,'  says  he,  'havin'  warned  you  fair,  my  con- 
science is  at  ease.' 

"  'Off  my  ship,  sir!'  says  Cap'n  Wrath. 

" '  'Twill  cost  you  jus'  a  dollar  a  minute,  Cap'n 
Wrath,'  says  Cap'n  Sammy,  'for  delay.' 

"Cap'n  Wrath  swung  rotmd,  with  that,  an'  fair 
spat  rage  an'  misery  in  Cap'n  Sammy's  face. 

"'I'll  work  the  Bloodhound  near,'  says  Cap'n 


Small  Sam  Small 


243 


Sammy,  'an'  stand  by  t'  take  a  line.  This  gale  will 
break  afore  noon.  But  give  her  some  leeway,  t' 
make  sure.  Ay;  the  ice  will  feel  the  wind  afore 
dark.  The  ice  will  talk:  it  won't  need  no  word  o' 
mine.  You'll  want  that  line  aboard  my  ship,  Cap'n 
Wrath,  when  the  ice  begins  t'  press.  An'  I'll  stand 
by,  like  a  Christian  skipper,  at  a  dollar  a  minute  for 
delay' — ^he  hataled  out  his  timepiece — 't'  sav»  your 
ribs  from  crackin'  when  they  hurts  you.  Yelp  for 
help  when  you  wants  to.  Good-day,  sir.'  He  went 
overside.  'Item,  Cap'n  Wrath,'  says  Skipper 
Sammy,  squintin'  up:  'to  one  dollar  a  minute  for 
awaitin'  skipper's  convenience.' 

"We  got  under  way  over  the  ice,  then,  for  the 
Royal  Bloodhound.  'Skipper  Sammy,'  says  I,  by  an' 
by,  'was  you  reasonable  with  un?' 

"  'When  I  gets  what  I'm  bound  t'  have,  Tmnm,' 
says  he,  'they  won't  be  much  juice  left  in  that 
lemon.' 

"  'You  been  lappin'  rum.  Skipper  Sammy,'  'ays 
I,  'an'  you  mark  me,  your  judgment  is  at  fault' 

"A  squall  o'  wind  near  foimdered  the  ol'  feller; 
but  he  took  a  reef  in  his  coon-skin  coat  an'  weathered 
it.  'I'm  jus'  standin'  by  the  teachin'  o'  my  youth,' 
says  he;  'an'  they  isn't  no  meanness  in  my  heart. 
Give  me  your  hand,  Tumm,  an'  we'll  do  better  in 
these  rough  places.  How  she  blows!  An'  they's  a 
chill  comin'  down  with  the  wind.  My  bones  is  old, 
Tumm;  they  hurts  me,  an'  it  seems  t'  me  I  hears 


244 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


un  creak.    Somehow  or  other,'  says  he,  'I'm  all 
tired  out.' 

"When  we  got  aboard  the  Royal  Bloodhound, 
Cap'n  Sammy  bucked  the  ship  within  thirty  fathoms 
of  the  tramp  an'  lay  to.  'Nothin'  t'  do  now, 
Tumra,'  says  he,  'but  take  it  easy.  All  my  swilin' 
life,'  says  he,  'I  been  wantin'  t'  cotch  a  tramp 
Britisher  in  a  mess  like  this;  an'  now  that  I  is 
cotched  one,  on  my  last  cruise,  I  'low  I  might  as 
well  enjoy  myself.  I'm  all  in  a  shiver,  an'  I'm  goin' 
t'  have  a  glass  o'  nim.'  An'  off  he  went  to  his 
cabin;  an'  there,  ecod!  he  kep'  his  ol'  bones  till  long 
after  noon,  while  the  gale  made  up  its  mind  t'  come 
down  an'  work  its  will.  Some  time  afore  dark,  I 
found  un  there  still,  with  a  bottle  beside  un.  He 
was  keepin'  a  little  green  eye  on  a  Yankee  alarm- 
clock.  'There's  another  minute  gone,'  says  he,  *an' 
that's  another  dollar.  How's  the  wind?  Comin' 
down  at  last?  Good — ^that's  good!  'Twon't  be 
long  afore  that  tramp  begins  t'  yelp.  Jus'  about 
time  for  me  t'  have  a  dram  o'  rum,  if  I'm  t'  keep 
on  ridin'  easy.  Whew!'  says  he,  when  the  dram 
was  down,  'there's  three  more  minutes  gone,  an' 
that's  three  more  dollars.  Been  waitin'  all  my 
swilin'  life  t'  squeeze  a  tramp;  an'  now  I'm  havin' 
a  right  good  time  doin'  of  it  I  got  a  expensive 
son  t'  fetch  up,'  says  he,  'an'  I  needs  all  the  money 
I  can  lay  my  hooks  on.  There's  another  minute 
gone.'  He  was  half-seas-over  now:  not  foimdered 
— he'd  ever  a  cautious  hand  with  a  bottle — L'Ut  well 


Small  Sam  Small 


245 


smothered.  An'  I've  wondered  since — ay,  an' 
nuiny's  the  time— jus'  what  happened  up  Aloft  t' 
ease  oil  Sam  Small's  meanness  in  that  hour.  He'd 
never  been  mastered  afore  by  rum:  that  I'll  be 
bound  for — an'  never  his  own  rum.  'I  got  a  ex- 
pensive son  t'  raise,'  says  he,  'an'  I  wants  t'  lay  my 
paws  on  cash.  There's  another  minute  gone  I' 
Queer  work,  this,  o'  the  A'mighty's :  rum  had  loosed 
the  ol'  man's  greed  beyond  caution;  an'  therf  30t 
he,  in  liquor,  dreamin'  dreams,  to  his  death,  for  the 
son  of  the  flaxen  girl  he'd  wronged. 

"I  stepped  outside;  but  a  squall  o'  soggy  wind 
slapped  me  in  the  face — a  gust  that  tweaked  my 
whiskers — an'  I  jumped  back  in  a  hurry  t'  Skipper 
Sammy's  cabin.  'Cap'n  Sammy,  sir,'  says  I,  'the 
gale's  down.' 

"  'The  wind,'  says  he,  'has  the  habit  o  blowin'  in 
March  weather.' 

"  'I  don't  like  it,  sir,'  says  I. 

"  'Well,'  says  he,  'I  got  a  young  spendthrift  t' 
fetch  up,  isn't  I?' 

"  'Still  an'  all,  sir,'  says  I,  'I  don't  like  it.' 

"  'Damme,  Tumml'  says  he,  'isn't  you  got  nothin' 
better  t'  do  than  stand  there  carpin'  at  God 
A'mighty's  windi* 

"  'They's  a  big  field  o'  ice  t'  win'ward,  sir,'  says  I. 
"Tis  comin'  down  with  the  gale;  'twill  ram  this 
pack  within  the  hour.' 

"  'You  stand  by,'  says  he,  't'  take  a  line  from  that 
tramp  when  she  yelps.' 


246 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


"Cap'n  Sammy,  sir,'  says  I,  'the  ship  lies  badly. 
She'll  never  weather " 

"  'Mr.  Tumm,'  says  he,  'you  got  your  orders,  isn't 
you?' 

"When  Cap'n  Sammy  fixed  his  little  green  squint 
on  me  in  jus'  that  frosty  way  I  knowed  my  duty. 
'I  is.  sir,'  says  I. 

"'Then,'  says  he,  'h'ist  your  canvas.  There's 
another  minute  gone  1' 

"By  this  time  the  wind  was  leapin'  out  o*  the 
nor'west.  Fog  was  come  down  with  the  gale,  too. 
'Twas  fallin'  thick  weather.  Comin'  on  dusk,  now, 
too.  The  big,  black  tramp,  showin'  hazy  lights, 
was  changed  to  a  shadow  in  the  mist.  The  pack 
had  begun  t'  heave  an'  grind.  I  could  feel  the  big 
pans  get  restless.  They  was  shiftin'  for  ease.  I 
could  hear  un  crack.  I  could  hear  un  crunch.  Not 
much  noise  yet,  though:  not  much  wind  yet.  But 
'twas  no  fair  prospect  for  the  night.  Open  water — 
in  a  shift  o'  the  ice — was  but  half  a  league  t'  the 
nor'west,  a  bee-line  into  the  gale's  eye.  The  wind 
had  packed  the  slob  about  the  ships.  It  had  jammed 
half  a  league  o'  ice  against  the  body  o'  the  big  pack 
t'  the  sou'east.  In  the  nor'west,  too,  was  another 
floe.  'Twas  there,  in  the  mist,  an'  'twas  comin' 
down  with  the  wind.  It  cotched  the  first  of  the 
gale;  'twas  free  t'  move,  too.  'Twould  overhaul  us 
soon  enough.  Ever  see  the  ice  rafter,  sir?  No? 
Well,  'tis  no  swift  collison.  'Tis  horrible  an'  slow. 
No  shock  at  all :  jus'  slow  pressure.    The  big  pans 


Small  Sam  Small 


847 


rear.  They  break— an'  tumble  back.  Fields- 
acres  big— slip  one  atop  o'  the  other.  Hummocks 
are  crunched  t'  slush.  The  big  bergs  topple  over. 
It  always  makes  me  think  o'  hell,  somehow— the 
wind,  the  night,  the  big  white  movin'  shapes,  the 
crash  an'  thunder  of  it,  the  ghostly  screeches.  An' 
the  Claymore's  iron  plates  was  doomed;  an'  the 
Royal  Bloodhound  could  escape  on'y  by  good  luck 
or  the  immediate  attention  o'  the  good  God 
A'mighty. 

"Jus'  afo -e  dark  I  come  t'  my  senses. 

"  'What's  thisi'  thinks  I. 

"I  waited. 

"  'Wind's  hauUn'  round  a  bit,'  thinks  I. 

"I  waited  a  spell  longer  t'  make  sure. 

"'Jumpin'  round  f  the  s'uth'ard,'  thinks  I,  'by 
Heavens  I'  I  made  for  the  skipper's  cabin  with  the 
news.  'Cap'n  Sammy,  sir,'  says  I,  'the  wind's  haulin' 
round  t'  the  s'uth'ard.' 

"'Wind's  what!'  Cap'n  Sammy  yelled. 

"'Coin'  round  t'  the  s'uth'ard  on  the  jump,' 
says  I. 

"Cap'n  Sammy  bounced  out  on  deck  an'  turned 
his  gray  ol'  face  t'  the  gale.  An'  'twas  true:  the 
wind  was  swingin'  round  the  compass;  every  squall 
that  blew  was  a  point  off.  An'  Cap'n  Sammy  seed 
in  a  flash  that  they  wasn't  no  dollar  a  minute  for 
he  if  Cap'n  Wrath  knowed  what  the  change  o'  wind 
meant.  For  look  you,  sir!  when  the  wind  was 
from  the  nor'west,  it  jammed  the  slob  against  the 


248  Earbor  Tales  Down  North 

pack  behind  us,  an'  fetched  down  the  floe  t*  win'ard; 
but  blowin'  strong  from  southerly  parts,  'twould 
not  only  halt  the  floe,  but  'twould  loosen  the  pack 
in  which  we  lay,  an'  scatter  it  in  the  open  water 
half  a  league  t'  the  nor'west.  In  an  hour— if  the 
wind  went  swingin'  round— the  Royal  Bloodhound 
an'  the  Claymore  would  be  floatin'  free.  An'  round 
she  went,  on  the  jump;  an'  she  Mowed  high— an' 
higher  yet — ^with  every  squall. 

"I  jumped  when  I  cotched  sight  o'  Cap'n  Sammy's 
face.  'Twas  ghastly— an'  all  in  a  sour  pucker  o* 
wrinkles.  Seemed,  too,  that  his  voice  had  got  lost 
in  his  throat.  'Tumm,'  says  he,  'fetch  my  coon- 
skin  coat.  I'm  goin'  aboard  Cap'n  Wrath,'  says  he, 
't'  reasoa' 
"  'You'll  never  do  thatf  says  I. 
•"I  wants  my  tow,'  says  he;  'an'  Cap'n  Wrath 
is  a  warm-water  sailor,  an'  won't  know  what  this 
ke  will  do.' 

"  'Skipper  Sammy,'  says  I,  '  'tis  no  fit  time  for 
any  man  f  be  on  the  ice.  The  pack's  goin'  abroad 
in  this  wind.' 

"  'I'm  used  t'  the  ice  from  my  youth  up,'  says  he, 
'an'  I'll  manage  the  passage.' 
"'Man,'  says  I,  'the  night's  near  down!' 
« 'Mr.  Tumm,  I'm  a  kindly  skipper,'  says  he,  'but 
I  haves  my  way.    My  coon-ddn  coat,  sir  I' 
"I  fetched  it. 

"  'Take  the  ship,  Mr.  Tumm,'  says  he;  'an'  stand 
aside,  sir,  an  you  please  l' 


Small  Sam  Small 


MO 


"Touched  with  ran,  half  mad  o'  balked  greed, 
with  a  face  like  wrinkled  foolscap,  Small  Sara 
Small  went  over  the  side,  in  his  coonskin  coat.  The 
foggy  night  feU  down.  The  lights  o'  the  Claymore 
showed  dim  in  the  drivin'  mist.  The  wind  had  its 
way.  An'  it  Wowed  the  slob  off  f  sea  like  feathers. 
What  a  wonder  o'  power  is  the  windl  An*  the  sea 
begun  t'  hiss  an'  swell  where  the  ice  had  beea 
From  the  fog  come  the  clang  o'  the  Claymore's 
telegraph,  the  chug-chug  of  her  engines,  an'  a  long 
howl  o'  delight  as  she  gathered  way.  'Twas  no 
time  at  all,  it  seemed  t'  me,  afore  we  lost  her  lights 
in  the  mist.  An'  in  that  black  night— with  the  wind 
t'  smother  his  cries— we  couldn't  find  Sammy  Small. 

"The  wind  fell  away  at  dawn,"  Tumm  went  on. 
"A  gray  day:  the  sea  a  cold  gray— the  sky  a  drear 
color.  We  found  Skipper  Sammy,  close  t'  noon, 
with  fog  dosin'  down,  an'  a  drip  o'  rain  fallin'.  He 
was  squatted  on  a  pan  o'  ice— broodin' — wrapped 
up  in  his  coonskin  coat  'Tumm,'  says  he,  'carry 
my  ol'  bones  aboard.'  An'  he  said  never  a  word 
more  until  we  had  un  stretched  out  in  his  bunk  an' 
the  chill  eased  off.  'Tumm,'  says  he,  'I  got  every- 
thing fixed  in  writin',  in  St.  John's,  fc— my  f;on. 
I've  made  you  executor,  Tumm,  for  I  knows  you 
haves  a  kindly  feelin'  for  the  lad,  an'  an  inklin', 
maybe,  o'  the  kind  o'  man  I  wished  I  was.  A  fair 
lad:  a  fine,  brave  lad,  with  a  free  hand.  I'm  glad 
he  knows  how  t'  spend.    I  made  my  fortune,  Tumm, 


MO 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


u  I  made  it ;  an'  I'm  glad— I'm  proud— I'm  mijjity 
prond— that  my  ion  will  spend  it  like  a  gentleman. 
I  loves  un.  An'  you.  Tunun,  will  teach  un  wisdom 
an'  kindness,  accordin'  t'  your  lightt.  That's  all, 
Tumm:  I've  no  more  t'  say.'  Pretty  soon,  though, 
he  ran  on :  1  been  a  mean  man.  But  I'm  not  overly 
sorry  now :  for  hunger  an'  hardship  will  never  teach 
my  son  evil  things  o'  the  world  God  made.  I  low, 
anyhow,'  says  he,  'that  God  is  even  with  me.  But 
I  don't  know— I  don't  know.'  You  see,"  Tumm 
reflected,  "  'tis  wisdom  t'  gtt  an'  f  have,  no  doubt; 
but  'tis  not  the  whole  o'  wisdom,  an'  'tis  a  mean 
poor  strand  o'  Truth  t'  hang  the  weight  of  a  life 
to.  Maybe,  then,"  he  continued,  "Small  Sam  Small 
fell  asleep.  I  don't  know.  He  was  quite  still.  I 
waited  with  un  till  twilight  'Twas  gray  weather 
still— an'  comin'  on  a  black  night  The  ship  pitched 
like  a  gull  in  the  spent  swell  o'  the  gale.  Rain  fell, 
I  mind.  Maybe,  then.  Skipper  Sammy  didn't  quite 
know  what  he  was  sayin'.  Maybe  not  I  don't 
know.  'Tumm,'  says  he,  'is  you  marked  his  eyes? 
Blood  back  o*  them  eyes,  sir— blood  an'  a  sense  o' 
riches.  His  strut  Tumm  r  says  he.  'Is  you  marked 
the  strut?  A  little  game<ock,  Tumm— a  gentle- 
man's son,  every  pound  an' inch  of  un!  A  fine,  fair 
lad.  My  lad,  sir.  An' he's  a  free  an' genial  spender, 
God  bless  unt' 
"Skipper  Sammy,"  Tumm  concluded,  "died  that 

nigjit." 


"We  found  Skipper  Sammy  squatted  on  a  pan  of  ice." 


Small  Sam  Small 


251 


The  gale  was  still  blowing  in  Right-an'-Tight 
Cove  of  the  Labrador,  where  the  schooner  Quick  as 
Wink  lay  at  anchor:  a  black  gale  of  fall  weather. 

"Tumm,"  the  skipper  of  the  Quick  as  Wink  de- 
manded, "what  become  o'  that  lad?" 

"Everybody  knows,"  Tumm  answered. 

"What!"  the  skipper  ejaculated;  "you're  never 
tellin'  me  he's  the  Honor " 

"I  is,"  Tumm  snapped,  impatiently.  "He's  the 
Honorable  Samuel  Small,  o'  St.  John's.  'If  I'm 
goin'  t'  use  my  father's  fortune,'  says  he,  'I'll  wear 
his  name.' " 

"'Twas  harsh,"  the  skipper  observed,  "on  the 
mother." 

"No-o-o,"  Tumm  drawled;  "not  harsh.  She 
never  bore  no  grudge  against  Small  Sam  Small— 
not  after  the  baby  was  bora  She  was  jus'  a  com- 
mon ordinary  womaa" 


'immiM 


IX 
AN  IDYL  OF  RICKITY  TICKLE 


mMMij^mmmM 


.«(~ 

^^'-i 

MiA 

flft,^; 

ft>/; 

^K^S 

mm 

IX 


AN  IDYL  OF  RICKITY  TICKLE 

NO  fish  at  Whispering  Islands:  never  a  quintal 
—never  so  much  as  a  fin— at  Come-by- 
Chance;  and  no  more  than  a  catch  of  torn- 
cod  in  the  hopeful  places  past  Skeleton  Point  of 
Three  Lost  Souls.    The  schooner  Quick  as  Wink, 
trading   the   Newfoundland   outports   in   summer 
weather,  fluttered  from  cove  to  bight  and  tickle  of 
the  coast  below  Mother  Burke,  in  a  great  pother 
of  anxiety,  and  chased  the  rumor  of  a  catch  around 
;he  Cape  Norman  light  to  Pinch-a-Penny  Beach. 
There  v/as  no  fish  in  those  places;  and  the  Quick  as 
mnk,  with  Tumm,  the  clerk,  in  a  temper  with  the 
vagaries  of  the  Lord,  as  manifest   in  fish  and 
weather,  snread  her  wings  for  flight  to  the  Labrador. 
From  Bay  o'  Love  to  Baby  Cove,  the  hook-and-line 
men,  lying  oflf  the  Harboriess  Shore,  had  done  well 
enough  with  the  fish  for  folk  of  their  ill  condition, 
and  were  well  enough  disposed  toward  trading; 
whereupon  Tumm  resumed  once  more  his  genial 
patronage  of  the  Lord  God  A'mighty,  swearing,  in 
vast  satisfaction  with  the  trade  of  those  parts,  that 
all  was  right  with  the  worid,  whatever  might  seem 
tss 


256 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


at  times.  "In  this  here  world,  as  Davy  Junk  used 
t'  hold,"  he  laughed,  in  extenuation  of  his  improved 
philosophy,  "  'tis  mostly  a  matter  o'  fish."  And  it 
came  about  in  this  way  that  when  we  dropped 
anchor  at  Dirty-Face  Bight  of  the  Labrador,  whence 
Davy  Junk,  years  ago,  in  the  days  of  his  youth, 
had  issued  to  sail  the  larger  seas,  the  clerk  was  re- 
minded of  much  that  he  might  otherwise  have  for- 
gotten. This  was  of  a  starlit  time :  it  was  blowing 
softly  from  southerly  parts,  I  recall ;  and  the  water 
lay  flat  under  the  stars — flat  and  black  in  the  lee  of 
those  great  hills — and  the  night  was  clear  and  warm 
and  the  lights  were  out  ashore. 

"I  come  near  not  bein'  very  fond  o'  Davy  Junk, 
o'  Dirty-Face  Bight,"  Tumm  presently  declared. 

"Good  Lord !"  the  skipper  taunted.  "A  rascal  you 
couldn't  excuse,  Tumm?" 

'  I  'd  no  fancy  for  his  religion,"  Tumm  com- 
plained. 

"What  religion?" 

"Well,"  the  clerk  re{Aed,  in  a  scowling  drawl, 
"Skipper  Davy  always  lowed  that  in  this  here 
damned  ol'  world  a  man  had  t'  bite  or  get  bit.  An' 
as  for  his  manner  o'  courtin'  a  maid  in  conse- 
quence  " 

"Crack  on!"  said  the  skipper. 

And  Tumm  yarned  to  his  theme.   .    .    . 

"Skipper  Davy  was  well-favored  enough,  in  point 
o'  looks,  for  fishin'  the  Labrador."  he  began;  "an' 


WlJ^Mi' 


An  Idyl  of  Rickity  Tickle  257 

I  low,  with  the  favor  he  had,  such  as  'twas,  he 
might  have  done  as  well  with  the  maids  as  the  fish 
courtin'  as  he  cotched-«y,  an'  made  his  everlastin' 
fortune  in  love,  I'll  be  bound,  an'  kep'  it  at  com- 
pound interest  through  the  eternal  years— had  his 
heart  been  as  tender  as  his  fear  o'  the  world  was 
large,  or  had  he  give  way,  by  times,  t'  the  kindness 

0  soul  he  was  bom  with.  A  scrawny,  pinch-lipped, 
mottled  httle  runt  of  a  Labrador  skipper,  his  face  all 
screwed  up  with  peerin'  for  trouble  in  the  mists 
beyond  the  waters  o'  the  time:  he  was  bom  here  at 
Dirty-Face  Bight,  but  sailed  the  IVord  o'  the  Lord 
out  o-  Rickity  Tickle,  in  the  days  of  his  pride,  when 

1  was  a  lad  o'  the  place;  an'  he  cotched  his  load, 
down  north,  lean  seasons  or  plenty,  in  a  way  t'  make 
the  graybeards  an'  boasters  blink  in  every  tickle  o' 
the  Shore.  A  fish-kiUer  o'  parts  he  was:  no  great 
spectacle  on  the  roads  o'  harbor,  though-a  mild, 
backward,  white-livered  little  man  ashore,  yieldin' 
the  path  t'  every  dog  o'  Rickity  Tickle.  'I  gets  my 
fish  m  season,'  says  he.  'an'  I  got  a  right  t'  mind  my 
business  between  whiles.'  But  once  fair  out  t'  sea, 
with  fish  t'  be  got,  an'  the  season  dirty,  the  devil 
hisself  would  drive  a  schooner  no  harder  than  Davy 
Junk— not  even  an  the  01'  Rascal  was  trappin' 
young  souls  in  lean  times,  with  revivals  comin'  on 
hke  fall  gales.  Neither  looks  nor  liver  could  keep 
Davy  in  harbor  in  a  gale  o'  wind,  with  a  trap- 
berth  t'  be  snatched  an'  a  schooner  in  the  offing- 
nor  did  looks  hamper  un  in  courtship,  an'  that's  mv 


9S8 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


yam,  however  it  turns  out,  for  his  woe  or  salvation. 
'Twas  sheer  perversity  o'  religion  that  kep'  his  life 
anchored  in  Bachelors'  Harbor — 'A  man's  got  t' 
bite  or  get  bit!' 

"Whatever  an'  all,  by  some  mischance  Davy  Junk 
vas  fitted  out  with  red  hair,  a  bony  face,  lean,  gray 
lips,  an'  sharp  an'  shifty  little  eyes.  He'd  a  sly  way, 
too,  o'  smoothin'  his  restless  lips,  an'  a  mean  habit 
o'  lookin'  askance  an'  talkin'  in  whispers.  But  'twas 
his  eyes  that  startled  a  stranger.  Ah-ha,  they  was 
queer  little  eyes,  sot  deep  in  a  cramped  face,  an' 
close  as  evil  company,  each  peekin'  out  in  distrust 
o'  the  world ;  as  though,  ecod,  the  world  was  waitin' 
for  nothin'  so  blithely  as  t'  strike  Davy  Junk  in  a 
mean  advantage  I  Eyes  of  a  wolf-pup.  Twas  stand 
oflf  a  pace,  with  Davy,  on  first  meetin',  an'  eye  a 
man  'til  he'd  foimd  what  h«  w<*nted  t'  know;  an' 
'twas  sure  with  the  k)ok  of  a  No*rt»em  pup  o'  wolf's 
breedin',  no  less,  that  he'd  searvh  out  a  stranger's 
intention — ready  t'  run  in  an'  bite,  or  t'  do<^e  the 
toe  of  a  boot,  as  might  chance  t'  see.n  best.  'Twas  a 
thing  a  man  marked  first  of  all;  an'  he'd  marvel 
so  hard  for  a  bit,  t'  make  head  an'  tale  o'  the 
glance  he  got,  that  he'd  hear  never  a  word  o'  what 
Davy  Junk  said.  An'  without  knowin'  why,  he'd 
be  ashamed  of  hisself  for  a  cruel  man.  'God's  sake. 
Skipper  Davy !'  thinks  he ;  'you  needn't  be  afeared  o' 
me!  I  isn't  goin'  t'  touch  you!'  An'  afore  he 
knowed  it  he'd  have  had  quite  a  spurt  o'  conversa- 
tion with  Davy,  without  sayin'  a  word,  but  merely 


An  Idyl  of  Rickity  Tickle  859 

by  means  o'  the  eyes;  the  upshot  bein'  this:  that 
he'd  promise  not  f  hurt  Davy,  an'  Davy'd  promise 
not  t'  hurt  he. 

"Thereafter— the  thing  bein'  settled  once  an*  for 
all— 'twas  plain  saiKn'  along  o'  Davy  Junk. 
"  Skipper  Davy,'  says  I,  'what  you  afeared  of?' 
"He  jumped.    'Me  ?'  says  he,  after  a  bit.    'Why  ?' 
"  'C*,'  says  I,  'I'm  jus'  curious  t'  know.' 
"  'I've  noticed,  Tumm,'  says  he,  'that  you  is  a 
wonderful  hand  t'  pry  into  the  hearts  o'  folk.    But 
I   "low  you  doesn't  mean  no  harm.     That's  jus' 
Nature  havin'  her  way.     An'  though  I  isn't  very 
fond  o'  Nature,  I  got  t'  stand  by  her  dealin's  here 
below.     So  I'll  answer  you  fair.    Why,  lad,'  says 
he,  7  isn't  afeared  o'  nothin'i' 
"  'You're  wary  as  a  wolf,  man  I' 
"  'I  bet  you  I  is!'  says  he,  in  a  flash,  with  his 
teeth  shut.    'A  man's  got  t'  be  wary.' 

"  'They  isn't  nobody  wants  t'  liurt  a  mild  man 
like  you.' 

"  'Pack  o'  wolves  in  this  here  world,'  says  he 
'No  mercy  nowhere.    You  bites  or  gets  bit.' 

"Well,  well !  'Twas  news  t'  the  lad  that  was  I. 
'Who  tol'  you  so  ?*  says  I. 

"  'Damme!'  says  he,  'I  found  it  out.' 

"'How?' 

"  'Jus'  by  livin'  along  t'  be  thirty-odd  years,' 

"  'Why,  Skipper  Davy,'  says  I,  'it  looks  f  me 
like  a  kind  an'  lovely  world  I' 


260  Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

"  'You  jus'  wait  'til  you're  thirty-two,  like  me.' 
says  he,  'an'  see  how  you  likes  it.' 

"  'You  can't  scare  me.  Skipper  Davy!' 

'"World's  fuU  o'  wolves,  I  tells  you!' 

"  'Sure,'  says  I,  'you  doesn't  like  f  think  that, 
does  you?' 

"  'It  don't  matter  what  I  likes  t'  think,'  says  he. 
'I've  gathered  wisdom.    I  thinks  as  I  must.' 

"  'I  wouldn't  believe  it,  ecod,'  says  I,  'an  I  knowed 
it  t' be  true!' 

"An"  I  never  did." 

Tumm  chuckled  softly  in  the  dark— glancing  now 
at  the  friendly  stars,  for  such  reassurance,  perhaps, 
as  he  needed,  and  had  had  all  his  genial  life. 

"A  coward  or  not,  as  you  likes  it,  an'  make  up 
your  own  minds,"  Tumm  went  on;  "but  'twas  never 
the  sea  that  scared  un.  'They  isn't  no  wind  can  scare 
me,'  says  he,  'for  I  isn't  bad  friends  with  death.' 
Nor  was  he !  A  beat  into  the  gray  wind — hangin' 
on  off  a  lee  shore — a  hard  chance  with  the  Labrador 
reefs  in  foggy  weather— a  drive  through  the  ice 
after  dark :  Davy  Junk,  clever  an'  harsh  at  sea,  was 
the  skipper  for  that,  mild  as  he  might  seem  ashore. 
'Latch-string  out  for  Death,  any  time  he  chances 
my  way,  at  sea,'  says  he;  'but  I  isn't  goin'  t'  die  o' 
want  ashore.'  So  he'd  a  bad  name  for  drivin'  a 
craft  beyond  her  strength ;  an'  'twas  none  but  stout 
hearts — blithe  young  devils,  the  most,  with  a  wish 
t'  try  their  spirit — would  ship  on  the  IVord  o'  the 


An  Idyl  of  Rickity  Tickle  261 

Lord.  'Don't  you  blame  me  an  we're  cast  away,' 
lays  Davy,  in  fair  wamin'.  'An  you  got  hearts  in 
your  bellies,  you  keep  out  o'  this.  This  here  coast, 
says  he,  'isn't  got  no  mercy  on  a  man  that  can't  get 
his  fish.  An'  I  isn't  that  breed  o'  man!'  An'  so 
from  season  t'  season  he'd  growed  well-t'-do:  a 
drive  in  the  teeth  o'  hell,  in  season— if  hell's  made 
o'  wind  an'  sea,  as  I'm  inclined  t'  think— an'  the 
ease  of  a  bachelor  man,  between  whiles,  in  his 
cottage  at  Rickity  Tickle,  where  he  lived  all  alone 
like  a  spick-an'-span  spinster.  'Twas  not  o'  the 
sea  he  was  scared.  'Twas  o'  want  in  an  unkind 
world ;  an'  t'was  jus'  that  an'  no  more  that  drove 
un  t'  hard  sailin'  an'  contempt  o'  death — sheer  fear 
o'  want  in  the  wolf's  world  that  he'd  made  this 
world  out  t'  be  in  his  own  soul. 

"  'Twas  not  the  sea:  'twas  his  own  kind  he  feared 
an'  kep'  clear  of— men,  maids,  an'  children. 
Friends  ?  Nar  a  one— an '  'twas  wholly  his  choosin', 
too ;  for  the  world  never  fails  t'  give  friends  t'  the 
man  that  seeks  un.  'I  doesn't  want  no  friends,'  says 
he.  'New  friends,  new  worries ;  an'  the  more  o'  one, 
the  more  o'  the  other.  I  got  troubles  enough  in 
this  here  damned  world  without  takin'  aboard  the 
thousand  troubles  o'  friends.  An'  I  'low  they  got 
troubles  enough  without  sharin'  the  burden  o'  mine. 
Me  a  friend  I  I'd  only  fetch  sorrow  t'  the  folk  that 
loved  me.  An'  so  I  don't  want  t'  have  nothin'  t' 
do  with  nobody.  I  wants  t'  cotch  my  fish  in  sea- 
son—an' t'len  I  wants  t'  be  left  alone.     Hate  or 


Mictocory  iesowtion  tisx  cha«t 

(ANSI  ami  JSO  TEST  CHART  No.  2) 


^  APPLIED    IIVHGE      In 

^^  165 J  East   Main   Strstl 

r.S  Rochester.   Neo   York         14609       USA 

=  (716)   48!  -  0300  -  Phone 

S  (716)   2BS  -  5989  -  Fox 


262  Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

love:  'tis  all  the  same— trouble  for  the  hearts  o' 
folk  on  both  sides.  An',  anyhow,  I  isn't  got  nothin' 
t'  do  with  this  world.  I'm  only  lookin'  on.  No 
favors  took,'  says  he,  'an'  none  granted.'  An', 
well— t'  be  sure— in  the  way  the  world  has— the 
world  o'  Rickity  Tickle  an'  the  Labrador  let  un 
choose  his  own  path.  But  it  done  Davy  Junk  no 
good  that  any  man  could  see;  for  by  fits  he'd  be 
bitter  as  salt,  an'  by  starts  he'd  be  full  o'  whinli)ers 
an'  sighs  as  a  gale's  full  o'  wind,  an'  between  his 
fits  an'  his  starts  'twas  small  rest  that  he  had,  I'm 
thinkin'.  He'd  no  part  with  joy,  ^or  he  hated 
laughter,  an'  none  with  rest,  for  he  couldn't  abide 
ease  o'  mind;  an'  as  for  sorrow,  'twas  fair  more 
than  he  could  bear  t'  look  upon  an'  live,  for  his  con- 
science was  alive  an'  loud  in  his  heart,  an'  what 
with  his  religion  he  lived  in  despite  of  its  teachin'. 

"I've  considered  an'  thought  sometimes,  over- 
come a  bit  by  the  spectacle  o'  grief,  an'  no  stars 
showin',  that  had  Davy  Junk  not  been  wonderful 
tender  o'  heart  he'd  have  nursed  no  spite  against 
God's  world;  an'  whatever  an'  all,  had  he  but  had 
the  power  an'  wisdom,  t'  strangle  his  conscience  in 
its  youth  he'd  have  gained  peace  in  his  own  path, 
as  many  a  man  afore  un. 

"'Isn't  my  fault  1'  says  he,  one  night.     'Can't 
blame  me!" 
"  "What's  that.  Skipper  Davy?' 
"  'They  says  Janet  Luff's  wee  baby  has  come  t' 
the  pass  o'  starvation.' 


An  Idyl  of  Rickity  Tickle  263 

"  Wdl,'  says  I,  'what's  yotir  tears  for?* 

"  'I  isn't  got  nothin'  t'  do  with  this  here  damned 

ol'  world/  says  he.    'I'm  only  lookin'  on.    Isn't  no 

good  in  it,  anyhow.' 

"..  y^*^  "P''  ^y*  ^    '^*"'*  nobody  hurtin'  you.' 
"  'Not  bein'  in  love  witii  tears  an'  hunger,'  says 
he,  'I  isn't  able  t'  cheer  up.' 
"  'There's  tnore'n  that  in  the  world.' 
"  'Ay;  death  an'  sin.' 
''I  was  a  lad  in  love.    "Kisses  1'  says  I. 

" 'A  pother  o' blood  an' trouble,' says  he.  'Death 
in  every  mouthful  a  man  takes.' 

"  'Skipper  Davy,'  says  I,  'you've  come  to  a  dread- 
ful pass.' 

'"Ay,  an'  t'  be  sure  f  says  he.  'I've  gathered 
wisdom  with  my  years;  an'  every  man  o'  years  an' 
wisdom  has  come  to  a  dreadful  pass.  Wait  'til 
you're  thirty-two,  lad,  an'  you'U  find  it  out,  an' 
remember  Davy  Junk  in  kindness,  once  you  feels  the 
fangs  o'  the  world  at  your  throat  Maybe  you 
thinks,  Tumm,  that  I  likes  t'  live  in  a  wolf's  world 
But  I  doesn't  like  it  I  jus'  knows  'tis  a  wolf's  world 
and  goes  cautious  accordin'.  I  didn't  make  it,  an' 
don't  like  it,  but  I'm  here,  an'  I'm  a  wolf  like  the 
rest  A  wolfs  world  1  Ah-hal  You  bites  or  gets 
bit  down  here.  Teeth  for  you  an  you've  no  teeth 
o  your  own.  Janet  Luflf's  baby,  says  you?  But  a 
dollar  a  tooth;  an'-I  keeps  my  teeth;  keeps  un 
sharp  an  ready  for  them  that  might  want  f  bite 
me  m  my  old  age.    If  I  was  a  fish  I'd  be  fond  o' 


MM 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


angle-worms;  bein'  bora  in  a  wolf's  world,  with 
the  soul  of  a  wolf,  why,  damme,  I  files  my  teeth! 
Still  an'  all,  lad,  I'm  a  genial  man,  an'  I'll  not  deny 
that  I'm  unhappy.  You  thinks  I  likes  t'  hear  the 
lads  ashore  mock  me  for  a  pinch-penny  an'  mean 
man  ?  No,  sir  I  It  grieves  me.  I  wants  all  the  time 
t'  hear  the  little  fellers  sing  out:  "Ahoy,  there. 
Skipper  Davy,  ol'  cock!  What  fair  wind  blowed 
you  through  the  tickle?"  An'  I'm  a  man  o'  com- 
passion, too.  Why,  Tumm,  you'll  never  believe  it, 
I  knows,  but  /  wants  t'  lift  the  fallen,  an  /  wants  t' 
feed  the  hungry,  an'  /  wants  to  clothe  the  naked! 
It  fair  breaks  my  heart  t'  hear  a  child  cry.  I  lies 
awake  o'  nights  t'  brood  upon  the  sorrows  o'  the 
world.  That's  my  heart,  Tumm,  as  God  knows  it — 
but  'tis  not  the  wisdom  I've  gathered.  An'  age  an' 
wisdom  teach  a  man  t'  be  wary  in  a  wolf's  world. 
'Tis  a  shame,  by  Godl'  poor  Davy  Junk  broke  out; 
'but 'tisn't  my  fault!' 

"I  was  scared  t'  my  marrow-bones. 

"  'An'  now,  Tumm,'  says  he,  'what  '11 1  do?' 

"  'Skipper  Davy,'  says  I,  'go  wash  the  windows  o' 
your  soul!' 

"He  jumped.    'How's  that?'  says  he. 

" '  'Twould  ease  your  heart  t'  do  a  good  deed,' 
says  I.    'Go  save  that  baby.' 

"  'Me !'  says  he,  in  a  rage.  'I'll  have  no  hand 
whatever  in  savin'  that  child.' 

'"Why  not?' 

" '  'Twouldn't  be  kind  t'  the  child.' 


lilj 


An  Idyl  of  Rickity  Tickle  S65 

"'God's  sake!' 

"  'Don't  you  see,  Tumm?' 

"  'Look  you,  Skipper  Davyl'  says  I,  'Janet's  baby 
isn't  goin'  t'  die  o'  starvation  in  this  harbor.  There'll 
be  a  crew  o'  good  women  an'  Labrador  hands  at 
Janet's  when  the  news  get  abroad.  But  an  you're 
lucky  an'  makes  haste  you'U  be  able  t'  get  there 
first' 

'"What's  one  good  deedi" 

'T would  be  a  good  deed,  Skipper  Davy,'  says 
I.    'An'  you'd  know  it' 

"Skipper  Davy  jumped  up.  An'  he  was  fair 
shakin'  from  head  t'  toe— with  some  queer  tempta- 
tion t'  be  kind,  it  seemed  to  me  then. 

"'Make haste!' says  L 

"  'I  can't  do  a  good  deed  I"  he  whimpered  'I— 
I— got  the  othtf  habit!' 

"  'Twas  of  a  June  night  at  Rickity  Tickle  that 
Davy  Junk  said  these  words,"  Tumm  commented, 
m  a  kindly  way,  "with  the  Labrador  vessels  fitted 
out  an'  waitin'  for  a  fair  wind:  such  a  night  as 
this— a  slow,  soft  little  wind,  a  still,  black  harbor, 
an'  a  million  stars  a-twinkle."  He  paused— and 
looked  up  from  the  shadowy  deck  of  the  Quick  as 
Wmk.  "What  more  can  a  man  ask  t'  stay  his  soul," 
he  demanded,  "than  all  them  little  stars?"  The 
skipper  of  the  -^  -*  as  Wink  said,  «'Tis  a  night 
o'  fair  promise  And  Tumm,  in  a  sigh,  "Davy 
Jitnk  would  never  look  up  at  the  stars."    And  the 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

little  stars  themselves  continued  to  wink  away  in 
companionable  reassurance  just  the  same. 

"The  other  habit  1"  Tumm  ejaculated.  "Ay— 
the  other  habit!  'Twas  habit:  a  habit  o'  soul.  An' 
then  I  learned  a  truth  o'  life.  'Twas  no  new  thing, 
t'  be  sure :  every  growed  man  knows  it  well  enough. 
But  'twas  new  t'  me — as  truth  forever  comes  new  t' 
the  young.  Lovely  or  fearsome  as  may  chance  t'  be 
its  guise,  'tis  yet  all  new  to  a  lad— a  flash  o'  light 
upon  the  big  mystery  in  which  a  lad's  soul  dwells 
eager  for  light  An'  I  was  scared;  an*  I  jumped 
away  from  Davy  Junk— as  once  thereafter  I  did — 
an'  fair  shook  in' the  Presence  o'  the  Truth  he'd 
taught  me.  For  'twas  dear  as  a  star:  that  a  soul 
fashions  its  own  world  an'  lives  therein.  An'  I'd 
never  knowed  it  afoie!  An'  I  mind  well  that  it 
come  like  a  vision:  the  glimpse  of  a  path,  got  from 
a  hill— a  path  the  feet  o'  men  may  tread  t'  bell  an 
men  perversely  choose  it  'A  wolf's  world?  A 
world  as  you  likes  itl  'An'  in  my  young  world  was 
no  sorrow  at  all — ^nor  any  an,  nor  hate,  nor  htmger, 
nor  tears.  But  love,  ecod ! — ^which,  like  truth,  comes 
new  t'  the  young,  an'  first  glimpsed  is  forever  glori- 
ous. I  was  sixteen  then — a  bit  more,  perhaps;  an' 
I  was  fond  o'  laughter  an'  hope.  An'  Bessie  Tot 
was  in  my  woild:  a  black-haired,  red-lipped  little 
rogue,  with  gray  eyes,  slow  glances,  an'  black  lashes 
t'  veil  her  heart  from  eager  looks.  First  love  for 
T.  Tumm,  I'm  bold  t'  say;  for  I'm  proud  o'  the 


An  Idyl  of  Rickity  Tickle  267 

odd  lift  o'  soul  it  give  me— which  I've  never  knowed 
smce.  though  I've  sought  it  with  diligence-«y, 
ahnost  with  prayer.  I've  no  shame  at  all  t'  tell  o' 
the  touch  of  a  warm,  moist  little  hand  on  the  road 
t  Gull  Island  Cove— the  whisper,  the  tender  fear, 
in  the  shadow  o'  the  Needle— an'  the  queer,  quick 
little  kiss  at  the  gate  o'  dark  nights— an'  the  sigh 
an  the  plea  t'  come  again.  An'  so,  t'  be  sure,  I'd 
no  kin  with  the  gloom  o'  Davy  Junk  that  night,  but 
was  brother  t'  hope  an'  joy  an'  love.  An'  my  body 
was  big  an'  warm  an'  wiUin'— an'  my  heart  was 
tender— an'  my  soul  was  clean— an'  for  love  o' 
tile  maid  I  loved  I'd  turned  my  eyes  t'  the  sunlit 
hills  o'  hfe.  God's  world  o'  sea  an'  labor  an'  hearts 
— an'  therein  a  lad  in  lovel 

"  TU  take  care  o'  my  soul.'  thinks  the  lad.  that 
was  I. 'lest  it  be  cast  away  forever,  God  help  me!' 

"An'   that's  youth— the  same  everywhere  an' 
forever." 

Tumm  sighed.    .    .    . 

'Twas  high  time  for  me  now  t'  sail  the  Labra- 
dor,' Tumm  resumed,  "an*  I  was  in  a  pother  o' 
longm'  t'  go.  Sixteen— an'  never  a  sight  o'  Mug- 
ford  !  I  was  fair  ashamed  t'  look  Bessie  Tot  in  the 
eye.  Dear  heart!— she  ever  loved  courage  in  - 
man,  an'  the  vviU  t'  labor,  too,  an'  t'  be.  An'  so-^ 
Ecod!'  thinks  I,  on  the  way  home  that  night  Til 
Mil  along  o'  Davy  Junk,  an'  prove  my  spirit,  withal, 
for  the  whole  world  t'  see.    An'  I  'low  that  now. 


i 


II 


268 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


knowin'  me  so  well  as  he  does,  Davy'll  ship  me.' 
But  my  mother  said  me  nay — until  I  pestered  her 
skirts  an'  her  poor  heart  beyond  bearin';  an'  then 
all  at  once  she  cried,  an'  kissed  me,  an'  cried  a  bit 
more,  an'  kissed  me  again,  an'  hugged  me,  an' 
'lowed  that  a  lad  had  t'  be  a  man  some  time,  what- 
ever happened,  an'  bade  me  sail  along  o'  Skipper 
Davy  an  he'd  take  me,  which  he  never  would  do, 
thinks  she.  It  come  about,  whatever  an'  all,  that 
I  foimd  Skipper  Davy  on  the  doorstep  of  his  spick- 
an'-span  cottage  by  Blow-Me,  near  the  close  o'  that 
day,  with  night  fallin'  with  poor  promise,  an'  the 
wind  adverse  an'  soggy  with  fog.  An'  thinks  I, 
his  humor  would  be  bad,  an'  he'd  be  cursin'  the 
world  an'  the  weather  an'  all,  in  the  way  he'd  the 
bad  habit  o'  doin'.  But  no  such  thing;  he  was  as 
near  to  a  smile  o'  satisfaction  with  hisself  as  Davy 
Junk  could  very  well  come  with  the  bad  habit  o' 
lips  an'  brows  he'd  contracted.  For  look  you! — 
a  scowl  is  a  twist  o'  face  with  some  men ;  but  with 
Davy  his  smile  was  a  twist  that  had  t'  be  kep^ 
twisted. 

"  'Evil  weather.  Skipper  Davy,'  says  I. 

"  'Oh  no,'  says  he.  'It  all  depends  on  how  you 
looks  at  it.' 

"  'But  you're  not  in  the  habit  o'  looldn' ' 

"  'I'm  leamin'  t'  peep,'  says  he. 

"I'd  no  means  of  accountin'  for  that!  'Foul 
weather,  an'  no  talkin',  man,'  says  I,  'for  the  Labra- 
dor bound r 


An  Idyl  of  Rickity  Tickle  269 

"  'What's  the  sense  o'  naggin'  the  weather f  says 
he.  Isn't  you  able  t'  leave  her  alone,  Tumm  ?  Give 
her  time,  lad,  an'  she'll  blow  fair.  She've  her 
humors  as  weU  as  we,  haven't  she?  An'  she've  her 
business,  too.  An'  how  can  you  tell  whether  her 
business  is  good  or  evil?  I  tells  you.  Tumm,  you 
»sn  t  got  no  right  t'  question  the  weather ' 

" 'God's  sake!'  says  I.  'What's  happened  over- 
night? 

"  'No  matter,'  says  he.  'I  'low  a  man  haves  the 
nght  t'  try  a  change  o'  mind  an  he  wants  to.' 

"  'Parson  Tree  been  overhaulin'  you  V 

"'Oh,'  says  he.  'a  man  can  put  his  soul  ship- 
shape without  the  aid  of  a  parson.' 

"  'Then,  Skipper  Davy,'  says  I,  with  my  heart  in 
my  mouth,  'I  'low  I'U  saU  the  Labrador  along 
o  you.'  * 

"  'Not  so,  my  son,'  says  he.    'By  no  means.' 

"  'I  wants  to,  Skipper  Davy  I' 

"  'You  got  a  mother  ashore,'  says  he. 
^  "  'Well,  but,'  says  I,  'my  mother  says  a  lad's  got 
t  be  a  man  some  time.' 

'I  'I  can't  afford  t'  take  you,  Tumm.' 

'"Look  you.  Skipper  Davy!'  says  I,  'I'm  able- 
bodied  for  my  years.  None  more  so.  Take  me 
along  o'  you— an'  I'U  work  my  hands  t'  bloody 
pulp!'  ' 

" '  'Tis  not  that,  Tumm,'  says  he.  '  'Tis— well— 
because-I've  growed  kind  o'  fond  o'  you  overnight. 


We  got  a  bit— i 


intimate — ^together — an'  you ' 


you — was 


S70 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


kind.  'Tis  not  my  habit,  lad,  t'  be  fond  o'  nobody,' 
says  he,  in  a  flash,  'an'  I'll  not  keep  it  up.  I'm 
otherwise  schooled.  But,  damme  I'  says  he,  'a  man's 
got  t'  go  overboard  once  in  a  while,  v/hatever  comes 
t'  pass.' 

"  "Then  sure  you'll  take  me  I' 

"  'I  wouldn't  get  my  fish,'  says  he.  'I'd  be  scared 
o'  losin'  you.  I'd  sail  the  IVord  o'  the  Lord  like  a 
ninny.  Thinks  I — I  got  t'  be  careful  1  Thinks  I — 
why,  I  can't  have  Tumm  cast  away,  for  what  would 
his  mother  do?  Thinks  I — I'll  reef,  an'  I'll  harbor, 
an'  I  can't  get  along,  an'  I  might  hit  ice,  an'  I  might 
go  ashore  on  Devil-May-Care.  An'  I  wouldn't  get 
my  fishf 

"'StiUan'all,  Ipo/t'go!' 

"  'You  isn't  driven,'  says  he. 

"  'Skipper  Davy,'  says  I,  fair  desperate,  'I  got  a 
maid.' 

"  'A  whatf  says  he. 

"  'A  maid.  Skipper  Davy,'  says  I,  'an'  I  wants 
with  all  my  heart  t'  prove  my  courage.' 

"  'What  you  goin'  t'  do  with  her?' 

"  'I'll  wed  her  in  due  season.' 

"Skipper  Davy  jtunped — an'  stared  at  me  until 
I  fair  blushed.  I'd  shook  un  well,  it  seemed,  with- 
out knowin' — fair  t'  the  core  of  his  heart,  as  it 
turned  out — an'  I'd  somehow  give  un  a  glimpse  of 
his  own  young  days,  which  he'd  forgot  all  about 
an'  buried  in  the  years  since  then,  an'  couldn't  now 
believe  had  been  true.  'A  maid?'  says  he  then.  'A — 


An  Idyl  of  Rickity  Tickle  271 

maid  I  An' you'll  wed  her  in  due  Mason  I  KoN.IadI 
Knee-high  to  a  locust  I  An'  yo"  vants  f  go 
down  the  Labrador  t'  prove  your  co>  .age  for  the 
sake  of  a  maid?  For— Love  I  'Tis  not  a  share  o' 
the  catch  you  wants— 'tis  not  altogether  the  sight  o' 
strange  places— 'tis  not  t'  master  the  tricks  o'  sailin' 
—'tis  not  t'  learn  the  reefs  an'  berths  o'  the  Labra- 
dor. 'Tis  t'  prove— your— courage  1  An'  for  the 
sake  of  a  maid  I  Is  that  the  behavior  o*  lads  in  the 
world  in  these  times  ?  Was  it  always  the  way— with 
lads?  I  wondei— I  wonder  an  /  might  ever  have 
done  that — in  my  youth !' 

"I  couldn't  tell  un. 

"  'Tumm,'  says  lie,  'I'll  further  your  purpose,  God 
help  me!' 

"An'  then  the  first  adventure  comin'  down  ' 
a  patch  o'  sunshine  over  the  seal  Ah-ha,  the  glory 
o'  that  time  I  Sixteen— an'  as  yet  no  adventure 
beyond  the  waters  of  our  parts!  A  nobbly  time  off 
Mad  Mull  in  a  easterly  wind— a  night  on  the  ice  in 
the  spring  o'  the  year— a  wrecked  punt  in  the  tickle 
waters;  but  no  big  adventure— no  right  t'  swagger- 
none  t'  cock  my  cap— an'  no  great  tale  o'  the  north 
coast  t'  tell  the  little  lads  o'  Rickity  Tickle  on  the 
hills  of  a  Sunday  afternoon.  B^.  now,  at  last,  I'd 
a  berth  with  Davy  Junk,  a  thing  beyond  Ldief,  an' 
I  was  bound  out  when  the  weather  fell  fair.  An' 
out  we  put,  in  the  Word  o'  the  Lord,  in  good  time; 
an'  Skipper  Davy— moved  by  fear  of  his  fondness. 


S72 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


:\J 


no  doubt— cuffed  me  from  Rickity  Tickle  t'  the 
Straits,  an'  kicked  me  from  the  Barnyards  t' 
Thumb-an'-Finger  o'  Pinch-Me  Head.  'I  isn't  able 
t'  be  partial,  lad,'  says  he,  't'  them  I'm  fool  enough 
t'  be  fond  of."  Whatever  had  come  to  un  over- 
night at  Rickity  Tickle— an'  however  he'd  learned 
f  peep  in  new  ways — there  was  no  sign  o'  conver- 
sion on  the  cruise  from  Rickity  t'  Pinch-Me.  But 
'twas  some  comfort  t'  be  well  in  the  lead  o'  the  fleet 
in  the  Straits,  when  a  westerly  gale  blowed  the  ice 
off-shore,  an'  it  fair  healed  my  bruises  an'  cured  i.iy 
dumps  t'  i;et  the  traps  down  between  the  Thumb 
an'  the  Fiuger  afore  a  sail  showed  up  in  the  gray 
weather  t'  s'uth'?'d.  Hard  sailin',  every  inch  o' 
the  way  down— blind  an'  mad.  Skipper  Davy  at 
the  wheel:  fog  alongshore,  ice  in  the  tog,  reefs  off 
the  heads,  an'  a  wind,  by  times,  t'  make  the  IVord 
o'  the  Lord  howl  with  the  labor  o'  drivin'  north. 

"I  didn't  ease  up  on  my  prayers  afore  the  anchor 
was  down  an'  the  Word  o'  the  Lord  got  her  rest 
in  the  lee  o'  Pinch-Me. 

"  'Feelin'  better,  Tumm?'  says  Skipper  Davy. 

"  *I  is.' 

"  'Don't  you  mind  them  few  little  kicks  an'  cuffs,' 
says  he;  'they  was  jus'  meant  t'  harden  you  up.' 

"  'My  duty,'  says  I. 

"  'I  isn't  very  used  t'  bein'  fond  o'  nobody,'  says 
he,  'an'  'tis  on  my  conscience  t'  make  a  man  o'  your 
mother's  son.    An',  moreover,'  says  he,  '  'tis  on  my 


An  Idyl  of  Rickity  Tickle  873 

conscience  f  teach  you  the  worth  of  a  dollar  in 
labor.' 

"  'My  duty,  Skipper  Davy.' 

"  'Oh,'  says  he,  'you  don't  owe  me  nothm',  I'm 
deep  in  debt  t'  you.' 

"  'Twas  a  harsh  season  for  Labrador-mea  Fish  ? 
Fish  enough— but  bitter  t'  take  from  the  seas  oflF 
Pinch-Me.  The  wind  was  easterly,  raw,  wet,  an' 
foggy,  blowin'  high  an'  low,  %n'  the  ice  went  scrapin' 
down  the  coast,  an'  the  big  black-an'-white  seas 
come  tumblin'  in  from  Greenland.  There  was  no 
lee  for  the  Word  o'  the  Lord  in  that  weathf  she 
hed  off  the  big  cliffs  o'  Pinch-Me,  kickin'  he  ..eels, 
wriihin'  about,  tossin'  her  head ;  an'  many's  the  time, 
in  the  drivin'  gales  o'  that  season,  I  made  sure  she'd 
pile  up  on  the  rocks,  in  the  frothy  little  cove  between 
the  Thumb  an'  the  Finger,  where  the  big  waves 
went  t'  smash  with  a  boom-bang-swish  an'  hiss  o' 
drippin'  thunder.  By  day  'twas  haul  the  traps- 
pull  an  oar  an'  fork  the  catch  with  a  back  on  fire, 
cracked  hands,  salt-water  sores  t'  the  elbow,  soggy 
clothes,  an'  an  empty  belly;  an'  by  night  'twas  split 
the  fish— slash  an'  gut  an'  stow  away,  in  the  torch- 
light, with  sticky  eyelids,  hands  an'  feet  o'  lead, 
an'  a  neck  as  limp  as  death.  I  learned  a  deal  about 
life— an'  about  the  worth  of  a  dollar  in  labor. 
Take  that!'  says  Skipper  Davy,  with  the  toe  of  his 
boot,  'an'  I'm  sorry  t'  have  to  do  it,  but  you  can't 
fall  asleep  on  a  stack  o'  green  cod  at  two  o'clock 
m  the  momin'  an'  be  a  success  in  life.    Try  ihatf 


■  im 


S74 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


nv 


li 

I' 

„'4j^Hi  ,1 

!|( 

hI'' 

i 

'J 

says  he,  with  the  flat  of  his  hand,  'though  it  grieves 
me  sore  t'  hurt  you.'  But  whatever  an'  all,  us  loaded 
the  Word  o'  the  Lord — an'  stowed  the  gear  away, 
an*  fell  down  t'  sleep  in  our  tracks,  an'  by  an'  by 
lied  in  wait  for  a  fair  wind  t'  the  Newf 'un'knd  out- 
ports.  An'  there  comes  a  night — a  fine,  clear,  starry 
night  like  this— with  good  prospects  o'  haulin'  out 
at  break  o'  day.  An'  I  could  sleep  no  longer,  an'  I 
went  en  deck  alone,  t'  look  up  at  the  sky,  an'  t' 
dream  dreams,  maybe,  accordin'  t'  my  youth  an' 
hope  an'  the  good  years  I'd  lived  at  Rickity  Tickle. 

"A  lovely  night:  still  an'  starlit — with  a  flash  o' 
northern  lights  abroad,  an'  the  ol'  IVord  o'  the  Lord 
lyin'  snug  asleep  in  a  slow,  black  sea. 

"Skipper  Davy  come  up.  'Tumm,'  says  he,  'is 
you  on  deck?' 

"  'Ay,  sir.' 

"  'Where  is  you,  b'y?' 

"  'Lyin'  here,  sir,'  says  I,  'cuddled  down  on  a 
cod-net.' 

"  'Now  that  the  labor  is  over,'  says  he,  'I'm  all 
tired  out  an'  downcast.'  He  sot  down  beside  me. 
'You  doesn't  bear  no  malice  for  all  them  kicks  an' 
cuffs,  does  you?'  says  he.  'You  sees,  lad,  I— I — 
isn't  used  t'  bein'  fond  o'  nobody — ^an'  I  'low  I 
don't  know  how  very  well — ^though  I  done  my  best' 

"  'Sure,'  says  I,  'I've  no  malice?' 
,  '"What  you  doin'  here?'  says  he. 

"  'Lookin'  up  at  the  stars.' 

"  'Is  you  ?'  says  he.    'What  for  ?' 


An  Idyl  of  Rickity  Tickle  275 

"  'They're  such  wonderful  friendly  little  beggars. 
Skipper  Davy  I' 

"  7  never  looks  up  at  the  stars.' 

"  'They're  friends  o'  mine!' 

"  'Not  bein'  very  much  in  favor  o'  the  world !' 
says  he,  'I  doesn't  countenance  the  stars.' 

"An'  all  at  once  I  turned  to  un  in  a  sweat  an' 
shiver  o'  fear.  Not  countenance  the  stars  I  Here, 
then,  another  flash  o'  light  upon  the  big  mystery  I 
Now  first  I  glimpsed  the  end  of  a  path  of  evil.  Not 
countenance  the  stars!  Could  a  man  truly  come  t' 
such  a  sad  pass  in  God's  good  world?  I  knowed 
evil :  all  lads  knows  it,  t'  be  sure — its  first  gates  in 
the  world :  not  its  last  places.  An'  they  stand  with- 
out, in  fair  meadows,  an'  peep  beyond — an'  wonder, 
an'  ponder,  an'  wish  with  all  their  young,  eager 
hearts  t'  follow  the  paths  an'  learn.  An'  we  that 
are  growed  forget  the  wonder  an'  the  wish— an' 
show  no  scars  that  we  can  hide,  an'  draw  the  cur- 
tain upon  our  ways,  an'  make  mockery  o'  truth,  an' 
clothe  our  hearts  in  hypocrisy,  an'  offer  false  ex- 
ample, an'  lie  of  our  lives  an'  souls,  lest  we  stand 
ashamed.  'Tis  a  cruel  fate  for  lads,  it  may  be,  an' 
a  deceitful  prophecy.  I  knows  little  enough  about 
life,  but  exhibit  my  ways,  whatever  an'  all,  for  the 
worth  they  may  have;  an  had  I  my  will  in  the 
world,  I'd  light  the  country  beyond  the  gates,  ecod  I 
an'  with  my  own  hands  stir  up  all  the  beasts !  Not 
countenance  the  stars  I  'Twas  a  vision  again  for 
the  lad  that  was  I — first  glimpse  o'  the  end  of  any 


111 


!i    II!! 
M 


I 

l|P 


t76 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


path  of  evil.  'I  must  guard  my  soul,'  thinks  the 
lad  that  was  I,  in  his  heart,  'lest  I  come  to  a  pass 
like  this.' 

"There  was  light  abroad  by  this  time:  a  big, 
golden,  jolly  moon,  peepin'  over  the  black  cliffs  o' 
Thumb-an'-Finger,  not  ashamed  t'  grin  its  fellow- 
ship with  sea  an'  stars  an'  all  the  handiwork  o'  God. 
An'  all  the  world  save  Davy  Junk — all  the  world 
from  the  ragged  hills  t'  the  rim  o'  the  sea — from 
the  southern  stars  fair  north  t'  the  long,  white 
lights — ^was  at  peace  in  the  night.  An'  then  Skip- 
per Davy  said:  'I  done  jus'  what  you  tol'  me, 
Tumm,  afore  us  put  out  from  Rickity  Tickle.  I — 
I— done  a  deal  for  Janet  Luff's  child — ^an'  I've  no 
complaint  t'  make.  I  made  haste,  lad,  as  you  said, 
an'  got  there  first,  an'  done  the  good  deed,  an' 
knowed  'twas  a  good  deed;  an'  I  been  a  sight  hap- 
pier ever  since — ^though  I'm  woebegone  enough,  God 
knows !  But  the  windows  o'  my  soul  is  cleaner.  I'm 
awakened.  I  been  sort  o'  converted — ^t'  love.  An' 
comin'  down  the  coast — ^an'  here  at  the  fishin',  with 
the  gales  ill-minded  an'  steeped  in  hate,  an'  the 
Thumb  an'  the  Finger  jus'  waitin'  t'  le'ward  t'  pinch 
us  all  t'  death — I  been  broodin'  a  deal  upon  love. 
An'  I'm  lonely.  An'  now,  Tumm,  I  wants  t'  get 
married — ^as  a  lonely  man  will.  An'  they's  a  maid 
bark  there  at  Rickity  Tickle  that  I  loved  in  my 
youth.  She've  a  kind  heart  and  a  comely  face.  She 
was  ever  kind — an'  comely.    I  told  her  once,  long 


An  Idyl  of  Rickity  Tickle  277 

ago,  at  Dirty-Face  Bight,  that  I— I— sort  o'  fancied 
I  loved  her;  an'  I  'lowed  that  once  I  found  out  that 
I  did  in  truth— an'  once  I'd  laid  up  a  store  against 
evil  times— that  I— I— I'd  ask  her  t'  wed  me.  An' 
I  knowed  that  I  loved  her  all  the  time.  An'  she 
said— that  she'd  wait.  An'  she've — waited.  I  'low, 
Tumm,  that  you  might  help  me  in  this  pass — for 
you're  young,  an'  in  love,  an'  in  touch  with  the 
ways  o'  courtship,  an'  I'm  old,  an'  crabbed,  an'  tired, 
an'  afraid  o'  the  world,  an'  I've  no  admiration  for 
the  man  that  I  is.  Eh,  Tumm,  lad?  Think  you 
might — serve  me?' 

"  'Skipper  Davy,'  says  I,  'I'll  do  my  level  best' 
"  'A  fair  night,'  says  he.    'Breezin'  up  a  bit  from 
the  north.    I  'low  we'll  get  underway  at  dawn.    Is 
you— is  you— well  acquainted  with  Mary  Land?' 
"  'Sure,'  says  I,  'she  nursed  me!' 
"  'She's  the  maid,'  says  he,  'that's  waited.' 
"  'An'  you,'  says  I,  in  a  rage,  'is  the  man  she've 
waited  for  all  these  years?' 

"'I   'low,'   says   he,    'you   might   move   her   t' 
heed  me.' 
^'  Well,'  says  I,  Til  do  what  I'm  able— for  she.' 
'"I'm  much  obliged,'  says  he;  'an'  I  forg.es 
you  all  the  grief  them  cuffs  an'  kicks  has  caused  me.' 

"An'  so  it  come  t'  pass  that  when  the  Word  o' 
the  Lord  dropped  anchor  in  Rickity  Tickle— an' 
when  I  was  foot-loose  from  the  ol'  craft  an'  had 
kissed  my  mother  t'  the  dear  woman's  satisfaction— 


278 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


an'  Bessie  Tot  on  the  sly  as  near  t'  my  own  as  I 
could  manage — ^an'  when  I'd  swaggered  the  roads  a 
bit — ^an'  had  cocked  my  cap,  as  I'd  planned  t'  do,  an' 
made  mention  o'  Mugford  an'  Pinch-Me  an'  easterly 
weather — I  spread  my  sails  on  the  road  t'  Gull 
Island  Cove  t'  warn  Mary  Land  o'  the  queer  news  I 
had.    She'd  a  p'ace  in  my  heart,  an'  in  the  hearts 
of  us  all,  for  her  goodness  an'  wise  ways — a  large, 
warm  place  in  mine,  like  a  sister's  nook  in  a  young 
lad's  heart.    An'  sure  she  was  sister  t'  all  the  lads 
o'  Rickity  Tickle— love  in  her  touch,  wisdom  on 
her  lips,  an'  faith  in  her  eyes.    A  Newf'un'land 
maid:  buxom  now,  an'  still  rosy  an'  fair  an'  blue- 
eyed  an'  tender.    But  not  merry  at  all :  gone  too  far 
in  years,  I  used  t'  think,  for  folly  t'  flush  an'  dimple 
her — she  was  goin'  on  thirty — but  as  it  was,  as 
then  I  knowed,  too  much  grieved  for  waste  o'  merri- 
ment.   An'  when  she'd  hugged  me,  her  nurseling,  as 
she  used  t'  say — an'  when  she'd  noted  my  stride  an' 
the  spread  o'  my  feet— an'  had  marked  my  elderly 
talk  an'  praised  my  growth— i  told  her  my  errand. 
I  plumped  it  out,  without  mercy,  in  the  way  of  a 
lad ;  an'  she  took  it  ill,  I  thought ;  for  breath  left  her, 
an'  she  stared  like  death.    An'  then  she  begun  t' 
cry— an'  then  she  sobbed  that  she  was  wonderful 
happy — an'  then  she  dried  her  poor  eyes— a-"  then 
she  named  Davy  Junk  an'  the  good  God  in  one  long 
breath  o'  love  an'  thanks — an'  then  she  smiled.    An' 
a'*er  that  she  put  her  warm  arms  around  me  an' 
half  hid  her  sweet  motherly  face ;  but  yet  I  could  see 


An  Idyl  of  Rickity  Tickle  279 

that  she  was  flushed  an'  dimpled,  like  any  young 
maid  o'  the  place,  an'  that  her  eyes  were  both  merry 
an'  wet.  An'  I  marveled  t'  learn  that  youth  an'  joy 
would  come  back  in  a  flash  o'  time  as  soon  as  love 
beckoned  a  finger. 

"•I  loves  un,  Tobyl'  says  she.     'I  jus'  can't 
help  it.' 

"  'He've  poor  timber  in  his  soul,'  says  I. 

"She'd  have  none  o'  thatl    'Oh  no,'  says  she; 
'he  jus'  needs — me.' 

"  'A  poor  stick  for  looks,'  says  I. 

"  'Ah,  but,'  says  she,  'you  didn't  know  un  when 
he  was  young,  Toby.' 

"  'Pst !'  says  I.  'An'  he've  kep'  you  waitin'  a  long 
time.' 

"  'It  haven't  been  hard  t'  wait,'  says  she;  for  I 
jus'  knowed  he'd  come — ^when  ready.' 

"  'I'll  fetch  Skipper  Davy  this  night' 

"  'Ay,'  says  she.    'I'm— wonderful  happy.' 

"  'There'll  be  guns  goin'  at  a  weddin'  in  Rickity 
Tickle  afore  long,'  says  I,  'I'll  be  bound!' 

"She  laughed  like  a  maid  o'  sixteen.  'An',  ecod !' 
says  shp,  'I  got  a  new  muslin  all  ready  t'  wear!' 

"It  rained  on  Rickity  Tickle  that  night:  no  lusty 
downpour — a  mean,  sad  drizzle  o'  cold  mist.  The 
road  t'  Gull  Island  Cove  was  dark  as  death— sodden 
underfoot  an'  clammy  with  wet  alder-leaves.  Skipper 
Davy  come  with  fair  courage,  laggin'  a  bit  by  the 
way,  in  the  way  o'  lovers,  thinks  I,  at  such  times. 


ji 


«80 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 


An'  I'd  my  hand  fair  on  the  knob  o'  Mary  Land's 
door — an'  was  jus'  about  t'  push  in — when  Skipper 
Davy  all  at  once  cotched  me  by  the  elbow  an' 
pulled  me  back  t'  the  shadows. 

"'Hist!'  says  he. 

'"Ay?" 

"  'Did  you— tell  her  outright— that  I'd  take  her?' 

"  'Ay,  sure  1' 

"  'No  help  for  it,  Tumm?' 

"'God's  sake!'  says  I. 

"'I— I— I  won't F  says  he. 

"An'  he  fled— ay,  took  t'  the  heels  of  un,  an'  went 
stumblin'  over  the  road  t'  Rickity  Tickle  in  the 
dark.  I  listened — ^helpless  there  at  Mary  Land's 
door — while  he  floundered  off  beyond  hearin'.  An' 
'twas  hard — a  thing  as  bitter  as  perdition — ^t'  tell 
Mary  Land  that  he'd  gone.  T'  break  her  heart 
again !  God's  sake !  But  she  said :  'Hush,  Toby ! 
Don't  you  mind  for  me.  I — I'm  not  mindin' — 
much.  I'm  used — t'  wpttin'.'  An'  then  I  made  off 
for  Davy  Junk's  spick-an'-span  cottage  by  Blow-Me 
t'  speak  the  words  in  my  heart.  Slippery  rock  an* 
splash  o'  mud  underfoot — ^an'  clammy  alder-leaves 
by  the  wayside  -.an'  the  world  in  a  cold  drench  o' 
misty  rain — an'  the  night  as  dark  as  death — an' 
rage  an'  grief  beyond  measure  in  my  heart.  An' 
at  last  I  come  t'  Davy  Junk's  cottage  by  Blow-Me, 
an'  forthwith  pushed  in  t'  the  kitchen.  An'  there 
sot  Davy  Junk,  snuggled  up  to  his  own  fire,  his  face 
in  his  hands,  woebegone  an'  hateful  of  hisself  an' 


An  Idyl  of  Rickity  Tickle         '  281 

aU  the  world— his  soul  lost,  not  because  he'd  failed 

m  love  for  a  maid,  or  worked  woe  in  a  woman's 

heart,  but  because  in  fear  o'  the  world  he'd  lived 

all  hii  years  in  despite  o'  love,  an"  love  had  left  un 

for  good  an'  aU,  t'  make  the  best  of  his  way  alone 

through  the  world  he  feared.    He'd  not  look  at  me 

at  all,  but  shifted  in  his  chair,  an'  rubbed  his  hands, 

an'  snuggled  closer  to  his  own  fire,  an'  whimpered 

what  I  couldn't  make  out.    Nor  would  I  speak  t'  he 

afore  he  turned  t'  face  me— though  I'd  hard  labor 

enough  t'  keep  my  words  in  my  throat.    Whatever 

an  all,  at  last  he  turned.    An'  'twas  the  old  Davy 

Junk  come  t'  Rickity  Tickle  again— the  beast  o'  fear 

peenn'  out  from  his  soul  through  his  little,  mean 

eyes.     An'  I  might  have  loathed  un  then— had  I 

not  pitied  un  so  greatly. 

"  'I  made  a  mistake,  Tumm,'  says  he. 

"  'Ay,  Skipper  Davy.' 

"  'This  here  world's  a  wolf's  world,'  says  he,  with 
his  teeth  bared.  'An',  damme,  I  got  enough  t'  do 
t  fend  for  myself !' 

"'Skipper  Davy,'  says  I,  'you  go  t'  hell!' 
'Twas  the  first  oath  ever  I  uttered  with  inten- 
tion. An'  I  ran  straightway  t'  Billy  Tot's  cottage— 
t'  cure  the  taste  o*  the  thing  on  my  lips— an'  t' 
ease  the  grief  in  my  heart— an'  t'  find  some 
new  store  o*  faith  for  my  soul.  An'  I  kissed 
Bessie  Tot  fair  on  her  rosy  check  in  the  middle 
o'  the  kitchen  floor  without  carin'  a  jot  who 
seed  me." 


Harbor  Tales  Down  North 

It  was  the  end  of  the  yam  of  Davy  Junk,  of 
Dirty-Face  Bight;  but  Skipper  Jim,  of  the  Quick  as 
Wink,  being  of  a  curious  turn,  presently  inquired: 

"What  become  o*  Davy?" 

"Lost  with  the  Word  o'  the  Lord,"  Tumm  re- 
plied, "with  all  hands  aboard." 

"Went  down  in  wreck,"  the  skipper  observed, 
"an'  left  nothin'  but  a  tale." 

"A  tale  with  a  moral,"  said  I. 

"Ay,  an' t'  be  sure!"  Skipper  Jim  agreed.  "Davy 
Junk  left  a  tale— with  a  moral." 

"Damme I"  Tumm  exploded,  "'tis  as  much  as 
most  men  leaves!" 

And  the  little  stars  winked  their  own  knowledge 
and  perfect  understanding  of  the  whole  affair. 


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